


Pound for Pound (Not to Scale)

by Sibilant, smugrobotics



Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Warrior (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of boy meets boy, but you should know upfront, this is a love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touch Gloves

For the record: after Autumn breaks up with him, Tom only spends three days in bed, rather than the full week he’d spent after Summer broke up with him. That’s an _improvement_. He goes to work and he does his job competently, rather than crashing and burning. He talks to Rachel on the phone; goes to lunch or after-work drinks with Mac and Paul and Robyn on some days, rather than ignore the world. He spends a lot of time sketching. He maybe listens to a lot of (maudlin) music.

But he’s not _brooding_ or anything.

That he spends his Fridays and weekends alone, in bed or on the couch, pillow over his face to block everything out – waiting for the days to tick over until it’s the start of a new work week – is nobody’s business but his own. He’s still dealing better than he did the last time this happened. So, on his third (or maybe it’s his fourth?) week of this, he thinks it’s pretty unjustified that the first thing Rachel says after bursting into his apartment – into his _bedroom_ – is: “God, Marianne Dashwood. Enough already.”

Her blonde hair is bright in the dim light of Tom’s bedroom – made even brighter when she throws his curtains open.

Tom throws an arm over his eyes; resists the urge to hiss at the sunlight, although a dry, throbbing ache has started up at the back of his eyeballs. He tries to pull his blanket over his head, but Rachel’s having none of that and yanks the blanket away completely, making Tom yelp, “Jesus! What if I’d been naked under that?”

“Like you’d ever sleep naked,” Rachel says dismissively.

Shuffle-stomping noises moving away from him, and Tom raises his head from the bed to watch Rachel’s progress around his apartment, through his bedroom door. She’s making coffee and she hollers from the kitchen, “Get up! Get out of bed or I’ll go back in there and kick you.”

It’s not a bluff – Rachel doesn’t bluff. Plus, she plays soccer. Tom swings his legs out of bed.

Rachel eyes him as he shuffles out and drops onto the couch; approaches with a mug of coffee and sets it down on the coffee table in front of him, before perching on the edge of the table. Her grey-green eyes are solemn when she says, “This isn’t good for you, Tom. Are you seriously just going to sit here until Monday rolls around?”

“I was actually planning more on laying in bed rather than sitting, but someone disrupted that plan.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore. You’re going to get up. You’re going to go out. You’re going to do something this weekend.”

“I _was_ going to do something this weekend.”

“What, mope and listen to The Smiths, or Nick Cave?”

Tom makes a flapping hand gesture that hopefully encompasses his responses of _‘bite me’_ , _‘so what?’_ and _‘yeah, well, it’s still doing something’_.

Long, long sigh from his baby sister. “I thought you’d gotten past this,” Rachel says, shaking her head. “Superficial crap alone does not a relationship make, remember? You said that. You said you’d learned – for real this time.”

“I say a lot of things,” Tom mutters, then leans forward to rest his head on the coffee table.

Rachel slaps him lightly with a newspaper, then drops it next to his head. Tom rolls his head to the side to look at it. “Weekend events section,” Rachel says, pointing a firm finger at the newspaper. “Read it. Pick something to do. Get out of the apartment. But,” Rachel wrinkles her nose, “take a shower first. You reek.”

 

–

 

It’s two hours later and Rachel’s vanished – after bullying him toward the bathroom – as quickly as she’d appeared. Tom flips through the paper without much enthusiasm, scarfing down cold, two day old pizza. Eating it straight out of the box because he’s not sure, if he gets his hands on a plate, that he won’t just start smashing.

There are a lot of craft classes being advertised in the weekend section, which– no. Just no. Tom’s already feeling emasculated enough as it is, thanks, without taking an arts and crafts class filled with middle-aged to geriatric women who – based on Tom’s past experience with his extended, very Jewish family – will be possessed by the urge to pinch his cheeks until they hurt.

He turns another page and a full colour, quarter page advert catches his eye immediately. A weekend-only promotion, the ad says; a discounted rate for people who apply for gym membership over the weekend. But it’s not just any gym – it’s a _boxing_ gym. Tom rolls his eyes a little, starts to turn the page–

–and hesitates.

He looks at the ad again. The listed address says the gym’s not far from his apartment. Probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes’ walk. And shit, hadn’t he just been thinking that he felt a little (okay, a lot) emasculated? Hard not to, he thinks sourly, when you’re the one who’s been dumped twice in a row. And nevermind all the relationships before those.

Still, part of him (the part that remembers being raised by a liberal arts professor mother, the part that took gender studies classes in college) is horrifically embarrassed, mortified at himself for even considering equating boxing – beating the shit out of something, or out of _someone_ – with being masculine. The rest of him is too busy tearing out the ad and trying to remember where his sneakers and sweatpants are.

 

–

 

The gym is clean, well-maintained, airy; it utilises space well. Good design. But it’s still very much a gym modelled in the old-school style. Signing up for membership amounts to little more than filling in his name and contact details on a card. There are no glossy brochures, no incentive items like logo embroidered bags and towels. No gleaming, well-toned PTs doing the rounds, giving advice. No extraneous crap.

Tom likes it.

The guy at the desk – Ricky – treats Tom like he knows what he’s doing. So does everyone else in the gym. Their gazes slide over him, disinterested, and it’s– comforting to know that even if he does fuck up in here, people aren’t likely to be watching. Still, once he has his hired boxing gloves strapped on as securely as he can get them (and, what the hell, boxing gloves actually have weight to them, which– what? Like boxing wouldn’t be painful enough already?), Tom avoids taking up position at any of the vacant vinyl bags close to the entrance.

The back third of the gym is dominated by a massive ring, currently occupied by two guys going all out, limbs flying and connecting. Thud of flesh on flesh accompanied by harsh breaths and the alternately barked commands and cajoling praise of another man, just outside the ring. Tom eyes the fighters for a little longer, before finally screwing up the nerve to pick a bag.

Hoping like hell that no one’s watching, he aims his first punch at it.

 

–

 

Training with Frank is different than training with Paddy. Maybe that goes without saying, but even more than six months after he’d paired up with the guy, Tommy can’t help but compare the two. Paddy was all about focusing on Tommy’s strength as a striker, on building up his body mass and speed so that he could exercise the full measure of his brutality in the ring.

Frank is about strategy, about learning skill after skill so that you’re never outmatched or surprised in the ring. In the seven months that Tommy has been training with Frank, he’s practiced jiu-jitsu, krav maga, capoeira – a whole spectrum of martial arts that Tommy hadn’t batted an eye at before. Today, it’s muay thai, and Tommy is doing his best to dodge the feet flying in his face while trying to ignore Frank yelling in his ear about finding his center or some new age hippie fighter bullshit like that.

At least it’s not fucking Beethoven.

His opponent – Adam – starts throwing elbows, and Tommy has to duck and dodge, weaving around the other man in an effort to stay off the ropes and out of range until he can get better footing. Today’s spar is supposed to be about running out the clock and racking up points, meaning Tommy can’t go in for a knockout like he normally would. It’s frustrating as hell, but that’s the point.

The new position has him facing the gym, Adam backing off for a second or two to recover and strategize, and Tommy’s peripheral vision catches on a shape off to his left, moving slowly and meandering around the bags in a way that Tommy isn’t used to seeing. He’s not enough of an amateur to look, keeping his attention focused on Adam and his feet of fury, but, after he goes in for a few rabbit punches and Frank separates them, he glances over.

It’s immediately obvious that this kid has never been around a punching bag before. He’s so completely out of place that Tommy is momentarily fascinated, brow furrowed in curiosity as he watches him in the minute or so break Frank allows before calling him back into the center of the ring.

Another round, another break, and the kid is still there. He’s still swinging these wide, open punches at the bag with such awful form that Tommy can’t help but crack a smile.

“Frank, I’m taking five,” Tommy calls over, flipping his trainer off before ducking under the ropes when Frank yells back a pissed off reply. Tommy doesn’t pay any attention. Frank is always pissed off at him.

The kid is so focused on flailing at the bag that he doesn’t notice Tommy approaching, not even when he’s smack dab behind him. Tommy takes advantage of his distraction to look him over. The guy is actually about the same height as Tommy, but he’s lean in a way that Tommy hasn’t been since high school. A good kind of lean. Tommy looks over the kid one more time, slower, a smirk growing on his face.

Another swing, this one wide enough that the kid stumbles, and that’s just too fucking much. “Man, you lost or something?” Tommy asks, unable to keep the laughter back. The minute he speaks he can see the kid tense up, hackles raising. He turns, and there’s a split second where Tommy catches a glimpse of an annoyed glare, before the kid notices Tommy’s size and comes up short.

The kid isn’t a kid, even if he does have a baby face. He’s probably close to Tommy’s own age, and though he’s aiming the scowl off to the side now, his face is still pinched with anger. Tommy shouldn’t find it so fascinating, but he does.

“No. I’m taking up boxing and this is the closest gym to my house. There’s a promo going on,” he says, as though hoping that will settle the matter and Tommy will move on.

Tommy laughs again, and he knows the guy is going to take it the wrong way, but man, he can't not laugh. This guy, whoever he is, is something else.

"Nah, that thing you're doing right there? That ain't boxing. I dunno what it is, but it sure ain't boxing."

The guy’s scowl grows deeper, and there’s a blush staining his cheeks now as he shrinks into himself. Fuck, that’s not how Tommy wanted this to go. Baby face makes to leave, turning and taking a step off to the side, but Tommy doesn’t let him get far. He puts a hand on his shoulder and gently nudges him back toward the bag.

“Alright, first lesson. Get your hands up like this,” Tommy starts, his still-gloved hands on Baby Face’s arms, moving him around like a ragdoll with light pushes and prods. “One foot back like you’re about to take a punch, and keep these close to your chest,” Tommy finishes, pulling his arms back a bit, the motion putting Tommy’s front right up against Baby Face’s back for one interesting moment before Tommy pulls away. “Got it?”

It’s funny, Tommy can almost hear the gears grinding in the guy’s brain, but he doesn’t pull away like Tommy expects. Instead, his previous annoyance seems to melt away into some mixture of surprise and disbelief. He takes a swing at the bag once Tommy steps away, and it’s still not perfect, but it’s at least a step in the right direction.

“Thanks? I guess? Umm…” Baby Face says, turning around and looking at Tommy expectantly.

“Tommy. Tommy Riordan,” He answers, holding out his gloved fist for a bump, but falters when he sees Baby Face’s eyebrows shoot up. Tommy tries not to grimace, because, fuck. Of course this kid probably saw Sparta and is putting two and two together. In just a second, he’s going to start going on and on about the fight and ask for an autograph and make a fucking scene. Tommy doesn’t want to deal with any of that crap. He feels his good mood start to fold.

 

–

 

Tommy Riordan.

Hot Boxer Guy’s name is _Tommy_ , which is just— just— _what?_ Tom can feel the disbelieving smile starting to creep across his face, even as his eyebrows go up.

Of course his name is Tommy. _Of course_ it is. Tom had met Summer, and then Autumn, and now he’s met Tommy. Of course he has. And Tom knows he should know better – _superficial crap does not a relationship make,_ he hears in his head, and it sounds a lot like Rachel. But it’s just so insane, and _so ridiculous_ , the way coincidences just keep popping up in his life, again and again, just when he’s convinced himself that they don’t mean anyth—

—Tom bursts out laughing.

Stops quickly because the guy – Tommy, he corrects himself – is frowning, and the frown is getting deeper with each passing second. Tom’s probably failing some macho Boxer Masculinity Test here, taking so long to respond, but he’s too amused to feel awkward about it right now. And Tommy’s fist is still raised, so Tom cheerfully raises his fist too, and bumps it.

“Your name’s Tommy? Seriously?” He says, grinning hard enough to make his face hurt. And he puts as much laughing emphasis on his name as possible when he adds, “Well, my name’s Tom. Tom Hansen.”

Tommy just blinks at him for a moment, though he bumps his fist back, and says, “No shit? It’s a... it’s a good name.”

Tom grins and opens his mouth, but before he can get anything out, someone hollers from across the gym: “Yo! Riordan! Get your ass back in the ring before I turn on the Beethoven!”

Tom glances over Tommy’s shoulder; sees a tall, dark haired man directing an exasperated stare at Tommy’s back. Tommy’s— trainer? Personal trainer, maybe? Whoever he is, he’s calling Tommy away. So Tom gives Tommy a polite, hopefully less insane-looking parting grin, and turns back to the bag.

But rather than leave with a simple farewell, Tommy presses a hand to Tom’s back and pushes slightly, with easy strength, easing Tom into a more forward leaning position. It makes Tom’s next punch a little easier, but it’s also distracting because— well, it’s just distracting.

“I gotta go,” Tommy says. “But I’ll catch you around, Tom.”

Tom hadn’t even been certain if he was going to come back, had been starting to think that maybe this boxing thing was a terrible idea, and why had he listened to Rachel? She’s _thirteen years old_.

But then he glances over toward the ring, just in time to see Tommy throw his opponent down onto the canvas in a flurry of movement and sweat-slicked muscle, and— well.

It wouldn’t hurt to come back again. Once more, at least.


	2. Bob and Weave

**Day 5**

The mini lessons at the gym become a thing.

Tom keeps coming in a few days a week, and Tommy watches him like a hawk whenever that moppy-haired head appears in the doorway. He always finds a reason to duck out of training shortly after, Frank pulling bitch faces the entire time, and come up behind Tom, armed with another pointer.

Today is no different. Well, not for Tommy, at least. Tom, on the other hand looks tense and drawn in. He’s hitting the bag with more force than usual, and Tommy almost winces, because Tom isn’t keeping proper form and those impacts must be shooting up his arm.

He stops when Tommy comes up behind him, turning around and looking expectant, if not thrilled to be interrupted.

“Not bad,” Tommy says after a moment, nodding in approval. And it’s not a lie, exactly. Tom is improving. He’s not good, it’s only been a little over a week after all, but Tommy isn’t embarrassed for him anymore, either. Maybe it’s weird that Tommy feels a little proud about that, given that he barely knows the guy, but it’s nice to have someone who can actually use a lesson in the one area of expertise Tommy has.

The extra fire in Tom today is interesting, too. Tommy walks over and lays a hand on the black material of the hanging bag, stroking his rough fingers over the surface with familiarity and a little bit of love.

“You got someone in here today, huh?” Tommy asks, smacking the vinyl to make the ‘here’ he’s talking about perfectly clear. It’s the first thing that pops into his mind, mostly because it’s something Tommy does himself. You put someone in the bag, in your mind, and your fists are gonna land with that much extra umph.

The slightly pleased expression on Tom’s face collapses. He frowns, breaking eye contact and focusing on the bag.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Tom says, and even though Tommy’s only known him a few days, it’s obvious that the wheels in Tom’s head are turning. Whatever his brain comes up with, it apparently isn’t good, because the next second Tom is swinging at the bag, wild and uncontrolled.

“God! Fuck!” Tom shouts, and Tommy winces in sympathy. He’d thrown the punch all wrong, and Tommy’s been there, he knows how the impact judders up your bones.

“Ah shit, man, you okay?” Tommy asks, letting go of the bag and gently taking Tom’s arm. He’s sure it's nothing - a painful jolt of the supraspinatus muscle, probably, but it gives him the opportunity to touch Tom. He's not going to pass that up.

Tommy helps Tom lift his arm above his head and then back down, prodding lightly at the joint. Tom is pliant, letting Tommy move him about how he likes, and Tommy might hold on for an extra second or two before letting go. If so, it’s no one’s fucking business but his own.

"Mm. You'll be fine. But you should probably take a break before you do some real damage," He finally says when he’s done checking Tom out. Tom nods, starts to pull away, and just like that, Tommy has an idea. He plants a hand in the middle of Tom’s back and gives him a light shove toward the door. "C'mon. There's a diner around the corner. I'm fucking starving."

Tom seems surprised at the turn of events, looking quizzically up at Tommy when he loops an arm around his shoulders and starts walking him down the street.

"So, uh, are you from around here? I've lived here since I graduated college and I don't think I've seen you around. It's a small neighborhood,” Tom says in a rush, peering up at Tommy from out of the corner of his eyes as they walk.

"Me? Fuck no, I'm from the 'Burgh originally. Moved out to Seattle when I was fourteen. Some other places after that. Never lived around here, though," Tommy says, surprised at himself after it's out of his mouth. He’s not that big on talking about himself, because people inevitably ask questions that lead to either answers that are uncomfortable for everyone, or lies that Tommy can't stomach. But when Tom asked, the answers just came out, no hesitation.

"And a college boy, huh? Thought you looked like you should have your nose in some book," Tommy continues when they reach the diner, holding the door open for Tom and then following him through it. He slides into the booth nearest the door and Tom follows, shuffling into the opposite bench.

Tom wrinkles his nose, and fuck, Tommy shouldn’t find that so appealing. "I didn't spend _that_ much time with my nose in books," he protests, vinyl squeaking as he settles in the middle of the booth. "Most of my papers were written last minute, the night before."

That makes Tommy blink, because hell. It takes Tommy a good _week_ to write a decent paper. "Yeah? I can see it. You look like the kinda guy who could pull that off. Smart," he says, plucking a toothpick out of the container on the table and popping it into his mouth, a habit he's never quite been able to break himself of.

The waitress comes by then to grab their orders, and a short lull follows when she leaves. Tommy breaks it, asking, “So what’d you study? Art or something, right?”

There’s that nose wrinkle again, and this time Tommy has to snort. “No, not art,” Tom replies, saying the word like it personally offends him. “I studied Architecture, actually."

"Architecture? No shit," Tommy says, and he knows he sounds impressed, but that’s because he is. Architecture has always seemed like some sort of mythical career to Tommy, ever since his Mom took him to see Falling Water when he was eleven. She'd talked and talked about Frank Lloyd Wright and how smart he was and how beautiful the house was and how amazing it was that the Lord gave such people talent. He still has the keychain she'd bought him at the gift shop.

Tommy licks his lips, feeling the bloom of nerves he gets whenever he's about to take a conversation somewhere out of his depth. “You, uh, you ever been to Fallingwater?" He asks, biting compulsively on the sliver of wood between his lips.

Something seems to ignite in Tom and he sits up a little straighter, a geeky smile blooming across his face. "You've been to Falling Water?” Tom asks, and there’s no mistaking the blatant enthusiasm lighting him up like the fourth of July. “Like, in person? I've only seen pictures. I did a paper on Wright, for my Architectural History and Theory class, and the way he integrated Japanese architecture into the design of the house is just amazing. I mean, it's kind of cliché now, but for the time the concept was revolutionary. And even now, a lot of architects just don't achieve the right balance between Eastern and Western-" Tom suddenly cuts off, face flushed.

"What did you think of it? What was it like?" He finishes.

Tommy leans forward, arms resting on the Formica and a huge grin on his face while he listens to Tom talk. "Yeah, it was only an hour or something away from Pittsburgh.," he starts, pausing as the waitress brings their drinks, "I was just a kid, but man. It was something else. I kept asking my mom why our house didn't look like that," Tommy laughs, stirring his coffee to help it cool faster, "and I told the tour guide they'd make more money if they put a ride in the falls."

He realizes that doesn't really answer any of Tom's questions, and he shrugs. "I don't, uh. I dunno the technical terms but it was really nice. Lots of light. Like you were outside, almost, but still had the house there to keep you safe and dry and shit." Tommy's brain stutters and he's at a loss for what else to say. He doesn't remember the details well at all, only the feelings from that day remain.

Tom's eyebrows go up and his mouth drops open, gaping like a fish. Only for a second, though, before his smile comes back as a full-blown grin. "That- that's brilliant. You-" he laughs, sounding surprised and delighted. “You kind of answered a question I didn't even ask. And I don't need to hear technical terms, I wrote a whole paper on it. And built little scale models of it." He says, making little building motions with his hands.

"Do you... remember much else about it? Maybe about how it made you feel?" Tom asks, earnest.

Tommy doesn't answer right away. In fact, he takes a good minute, to stir his coffee again and finally lug down a few mouthfuls. It's straight black - no cream or sugar, thanks to his training diet, and he grimaces as he forces it down. The silence starts getting weird though, and Tommy can't keep it up unless he wants the atmosphere to take a turn.

"I dunno if I can say it right," he starts slowly, trying to think of a way to get across what he'd felt in that building without going into all the other shit that was going on in his life at the time. "It was," he stops again, huffing out a breath.

"You ever have someone build something up to you? Like, they won't stop talking about the Grand Canyon, and they keep telling you about it and going on and on?" He waits for Tom to nod before plowing ahead. "Well, my Ma was like that with this house. It was all she talked about. And I guess... I mean, when someone goes on like that, the reality can't possibly live up to it, y'know? And I just remember being really happy when I saw it. Because it did."

Tommy keeps his eyes on his coffee, expecting disappointment from Tom, because Tommy’s shit at explanations. Tom surprises him, though.

"That's kind of amazing," he says. "That project I did on Falling Water? I had to do the model building component with a small group, and they were all structural-oriented. At no point were any of them interested in the feelings Falling Water could evoke. All the specifications that went into it, yeah, but not how it made them feel."

Tommy looks up from his coffee, and Tom is grinning. Tommy gives him one in return. There’s another lull, but this time it’s pleasant, comfortable.

"So, what do you do?" Tom asks after a minute or two. "Aside from boxing in your spare time? And helping out newbies."

The fuck? Tommy downs the dregs of his coffee, brow furrowed as he looks at Tom over the rim. "What do I do?" He asks, confused. "I fight. You see what I do every day." And okay, Tommy's a little disappointed because he's been showing off lately - doing more complicated take downs and arm and legs bars than he usually does. The fact that Tom thinks he's some sort of amateur is vaguely insulting.

Tom looks just as confused as Tommy is. "You... fight," he repeats slowly, staring at Tommy blankly before it seems to click.

"Shit, no, I- didn't mean it like that, when I asked what else you did. Sorry, sorry. I'm... I'm crap with words, sometimes. I just- I didn't know you could make a career out of that,” Tom blurts out, and then immediately starts backpedaling. "Well, of course you can. I mean, there's Muhammad Ali and Tyson and- it's just... that's just surprising. I don't know anyone who does anything remotely close to what you do."

Tommy has to laugh, Tom’s word vomit is just too fucking much. He tosses a sugar packet at him, managing to make it hit right smack in the middle of his forehead.

"Relax, college boy. I get it. It's a weird job, you don't see it every day," Tommy says, letting him off the hook. He's tempted to keeping ribbing Tom over his awkwardness, but even though Tommy spends most of his days putting bruises on other men, he's not cruel.

"I'm not a boxer, though. I'm UFC. Ultimate Fighting." Which, yeah, Tommy had thought was pretty obvious given the amount of kicking he does, but he's almost charmed that Tom doesn't know boxing from mixed martial arts. Like Tommy has this whole uncharted world behind him that Tom has never even glanced at. Tommy kind of wants to take him on a tour.

Tom grins, grabbing the discarded sugar packet and dumping its contents into his coffee. "Ultimate Fighting," he says slowly, as though tasting the words for the first time. "I... know what those words mean individually, but together they mean absolutely nothing to me."

They’re interrupted by the waitress again, and the minute his omelet is on the table, Tommy loses track of the conversation until he’s shoveled half of it into his mouth. "Well, they're not too far off from how they sound,” he finally says, after a thick swallow. “It's like boxing, but without all the rules. You can basically throw whatever you got at your opponent. Wrestling and martial arts and kicking - y'know, whatever it takes to get them down. No biting, though," Tommy finishes with a grin.

Well, no, he’s not finished. Not quite yet.

"I'm sparring with this guy today,” he starts, gaze moving from his eggs, to Tom’s face, and back again, “You wanna watch, you can," And God, Tommy knows he's being rude here, talking between swallows of his food, hunched over it like he thinks someone is about to snatch it away, but he can't help it. When his body has a need, nothing is going to stop him from seeing to it. "It's just a spar, too, so I can even promise not to get any blood on you," and it's obvious he's teasing here, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth around his fork.

Tom is watching Tommy eat with an expression of amazement and revulsion. He blinks and sits back, cheeks flushing again. It’s early days, but Tommy wonders if he’ll ever get tired of seeing that.

"Yeah, I'd like that, I think," Tom says after a beat, eyes dropping to sweep over Tommy’s arms and chest before flicking back up. “I mean, if you don’t mind?”

Maybe it’s completely fucking transparent, but Tommy can’t not lean back and sprawl, arms stretched over the back of the booth and a dirty fucking smirk on his face.

“Nope,” he says, watching as Tom’s flush deepens. “Don’t mind at all.”

**Day 8**

“You’re kidding me,” Tommy says, and he can’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice, but man, how do you make it into your mid-twenties without seeing _Rocky_?

Tom’s laugh in response makes Tommy momentarily forget his train of thought, and he has to struggle to catch up when Tom quickly follows up with, “I don’t know what to tell you. Just not my type of movie, I guess.”

“Fuckin’ tragedy, Hansen. We’re gonna have to fix that.” Tom’s expression flickers, brow furrowing. He looks at Tommy like he’s trying to figure him out.

“Uh, yeah, I guess we could…are you-,” the rest of Tom’s reply is cut off as the waitress comes by to drop the check, and the thread of conversation gets lost in their usual struggle over the check. By the time they get up to leave, whatever Tom was going to say is seemingly forgotten.

**Day 10**

“Again?” Frank yells out across the gym, stopping Tom and Tommy in their tracks at the door. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, Riordan!”

Tommy has his arm looped companionably around Tom’s shoulder, so he only has one hand free to lift and shoot Frank the finger before ducking out of the gym, tugging Tom along with him.

“Are you going to get in trouble?” Tom asks, grinning, but looking a little concerned.

“Nah,” Tommy snorts and shakes his head. “Frank’s just a fucking blowhard. He’ll chew my ass, but that’s nothing new.”

Tom’s grin quickly turns into a smirk. “You, uh, get your ass chewed a lot?”

“Oh man, Hansen,” Tommy shoots back without hesitation, voice dropping an octave or two, “you have no fucking idea.”

**Day 14**

When the waitress drops off the check, she smiles at them.

“You two are really cute together.”

She’s gone before Tom is able to stammer out a reply.

Tommy just grins.

**Day 17**

Tommy has stolen Tom away again and they're perched in their usual seats. The waitress has brought them their respective orders and Tommy shoveling his egg whites into his mouth as usual, chatting about random topics in between bites. He can't help grinning at Tom. It might be sad to say, but Tommy has realized that these lunches are the highlight of his day. Even if they’re not fucking yet, it's just...nice, having someone interested in what he does and what he has to say. Someone who isn't his trainer or brother, that is.

The day is overly hot, which means that Tommy's in a t-shirt instead of his usual hoodie or jacket. Tom seems distracted by the change, eyes darting down every couple of minutes and getting stuck on the bare skin of Tommy’s arms.

And, the thing is, Tom’s seen him in short sleeves before. Fuck, he’s seen him _shirtless,_ so Tommy has no clue why Tom is all fixated _now_ instead of when Tommy’s all exerted and sweaty. He gets his answer a second later when he pauses in inhaling his food and Tom gestures idly with his fork, saying, "Why'd you get a tattoo? Let alone a whole bunch of them?"

Tommy takes a moment to swallow, because he's not completely without manners, thank you, and sets his fork down. "Why?" He idly touches his largest tattoo, the tribal swirl on his right arm. "Uh. Well, it sorta started as a dare…thing." Tommy lifts his arm and shows the dragon on the underside. "This one was my first. Right before I shipped off to boot camp a bunch of guys and I got drunk and got tattoos." Tommy grins at the memory. "We ran around yelling hoo-rah all night."

Tom's eyes are on him and Tommy sits up a little straighter under the attention. "After that it was kind of, I dunno. It feels good. Little addicting." Tommy pauses and his smile turns darker, sly. "You wanna hear about 'em all?"

"Uh... yes?" Tom says, lifting his eyes from where they’d been running back and forth over the dark whorls of ink. Tommy slides his elbow forward across the table, right arm first, to give him a better look.

"This I got during my second year in the service,” Tommy taps the tribal pattern, tracing a curl with the tip of his finger. “Me and a couple of guys from my unit went on leave at the same time, ended up in a tattoo parlor.” There's another grin at that memory – he and Manny egging each other on, calling anyone they caught flinching a pussy – generally just being pain in the asses to the rest of the guys. He keeps going, turning and pulling up his sleeve to reveal his shoulder.

"Let's see...third year of my tour, when Ma-…my best friend got married. He got her name, I got this," Tommy says, tapping the graffiti on his shoulder. He’s too distracted by Tom to recognize that, a year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to think of Manny, even a good memory of him, without the accompanying guilt and pain.

It’s a little weird to be showing off his tattoos. For all reporters and fans ask about them, he’s never answered with any more detail than that he got them when he was young. But Tom seems genuinely interested, fascinated, and Tommy wants to keep that look on his face.

"This is for my mom," Tommy says, a little slower, almost shyly, yanking down the collar of his shirt and leaning in so Tom could see the dual masks. "She- when she was young, she loved acting. Did a commercial, once, even." It was just a local commercial for a mattress warehouse, but he remembers how proud she'd been of it.

Tom leans in and looks over the tattoo, and Tommy can’t help but preen under the attention. Tom’s usually so careful about looking. Well, maybe careful isn’t the right word, because Tommy catches him all the time. But, he’s not trying to hide it now and that’s a nice change of pace. It feels good. 

It gets even better when Tom reaches out and traces his fingers along the line of Tommy’s collarbone, over the seven digits tattooed there. "Didn't this hurt?" he asks, tone a mixture of curiosity and vague horror.

The truth is, Tommy doesn’t remember. He was so fucking blitzed on pills and booze that his only memories of the event are blurry colors and bursts of loud noise. But that’s not something Tommy is going to tell Tom; it’s nothing Tom needs to hear. Instead, Tommy just smiles.

“Yeah, man. That one hurt like hell.”

**Day 22**

So, yeah, the diner dates become a thing, too.

And, after the first week or so, Tommy stops being the only one initiating their little outings. Whenever Frank calls lunch, Tom’s there, waiting with a little smile.

Today is no different.

“Hey, Riordan,” Tom greets as Tommy climbs down from the ring. Tommy grins and wipes the sweat off his face with a towel.

“Hansen,” Tommy replies, tossing the towel onto his face and snorting as Tom swears and knocks it away.

“God, you’re gross. You ready to go?” Tom tries for annoyed, but he’s smiling and Tommy knocks into him genially.

“Yeah,” Tommy gets his arm around Tom’s shoulders again, pressing close and starting for the door. “Let’s get out of here before Frank gets his panties in a twist.”

Laughing, Tom follows.


	3. Search Terms

It's only into the third week of their diner... things—

(Tom’s brain shies away from the word 'date', although his dick doesn’t care a whit, starts sitting up attentively whenever Tommy invites him out for lunch)

—that Tom decides to run a Google search on Tommy.

That’s actually a pretty good waiting period for him, he thinks.

He’d considered running a search almost immediately after their first lunch conversation - just a quick search on his iPhone - but the sparring match afterwards had been— distracting. And he’d considered it again at the end of the week, but his superego had won out that time. It was rude, right? Invasive. _Personal boundaries, Hansen,_ he’d told himself. _You’re teaching yourself to respect them, remember?_ And Tommy had been right there, sprawled across from him in the diner booth. Tom could have just asked him about his life. _Quit being a pussy_ , Rachel’s voice had said in his head.

Except Tommy’s curiously reticent about his personal life, which is so at odds with how he behaves in everything else that— no, _boundaries,_ damn it. Tom should respect those personal boundaries, like a normal person. But—

Then again, he thinks quickly, Tommy's a professional MMA fighter – an athlete. Professional athletes are used to some parts of their lives being in the public domain – it comes with the territory. So really, any information on the Internet is fair game, right?

Right.

His conscience assuaged – or, at least, temporarily muted – Tom opens up a new Chrome window and types in Tommy’s name; he takes a stab at spelling Tommy’s surname phonetically and Google pops up with a helpful ‘Did you mean: _Tommy Riordan’_. Tom supposes he did. He clicks the correction link.

Jackpot.

The line of Google Image results and, even better, YouTube results grabs his attention immediately. The pictures are— well, they’re good pictures. Not as good as the real thing, but still good. And they’re all action shots, which seems a little weird. Don’t athletes do photo shoots? Maybe Tommy doesn’t like them - Tom can practically hear Tommy declaring them to be ‘all bullshit’ in his broad Pittsburgh accent; it makes him grin.

He automatically moves the cursor toward the first picture, until the first actual search link, a Wiki article, grabs his attention. Tom boggles. Tommy’s famous enough to get his own _Wiki article?_ And it’s not a UFC-specific wiki either, _it’s actually Wikipedia_. Curiosity piqued, Tom clicks on it.

The article isn’t the best laid out one he’s ever seen. But one heading and its two sub-headings stand out from the content box: _3 Military career_ ; followed by the sub-headings _3.1 Second tour in Iraq and desertion_ and _3.2 Trial and imprisonment_. Tom stares, distantly stunned, gnawing compulsively on the end of a pencil. So Tommy was a military deserter. That— well, okay, Tom can completely understand not wanting to talk about that. But _desertion_ – running away? That doesn’t sound anything like the Tommy he knows.

Puzzled, he clicks the heading and jumps to the relevant sub-article.

Five minutes later, he opens another tab and enters the search terms _Tommy Riordan AND Tommy Conlon_. A minute after that, he opens a third tab, and enters _Sparta AND UFC_. A fourth tab is opened for _Brendan Conlon_.

Fifteen minutes after he’d first opened Chrome, he’s got YouTube open. The first video he clicks on is a crappy, low resolution cell phone video. It’s only 50 seconds long, but that’s apparently all the time Tommy needs to take out another guy in a dimly lit boxing ring – Mad Dog Grimes, according to the expletive-laden, grammar-devoid comments section. Tom gathers from the comments that taking Mad Dog out like that is akin to turning water into wine.

And there are quite a few videos like that – Tommy viciously taking down his opponents in less than a minute, including Mad Dog for a second time. But the rest are all brightly lit, professionally filmed. Tom can see massive crowds in the background – Tommy’s fighting in an arena for these fights, not a dinky little ring. But the last video, the longest one, is the one he’s sure he’s looking for: _Sparta - Tommy Riordan vs. Brendan Conlon_. It’s from the official UFC YouTube channel, and it’s dated as being uploaded 17 months ago.

Sickly fascinated now, Tom clicks on it.

The fight is savage, _brutal_ – but so were all the others. But the point where Brendan – Tommy’s _brother_ , he thinks disbelievingly – dislocates Tommy’s shoulder makes Tom cringe like none of the other videos did. The UFC commentators start exclaiming in bloodthirsty shock and amazement. And then the commentary becomes positively foaming-at-the-mouth _frenzied_ when Tommy returns for another round.

Tom closes all the browser tabs at once.

 

-

 

He shouldn’t feel guilty, is what he tries to tell himself later. The information was just _there_ – pretty much anyone who followed UFC would know about it. It’s not like he’d hacked into Tommy’s military records or spied on the gym locker with a telephoto zoom lens.

He still feels like a shit heel.

It’s the kind of private, personal information that’s meant to be revealed in actual conversations. It’s the kind of thing that’s learned after building trust. _Just because something’s been made readily available doesn’t mean it_ should _have been made available,_ he rebukes himself. _Just because the information’s there doesn’t mean you have the right to know._

But Tom _does_ know now. He knows that Tommy deserted after his entire unit was killed, and that he’d been imprisoned for it (and the injustice of _that_ pisses Tom off). He knows that Tommy fought his brother in Sparta, and he knows that things were – maybe still are – somehow so messed up between them that Tommy’s brother had been willing to dislocate Tommy’s _shoulder_.

It’s a world of violence and abuse so wholly outside of Tom’s experience that it makes him edgy.

(He’d wondered why he hadn’t heard of any of this before. The media coverage on Tommy had been _insane_ , and Tom liked to think he was savvy when it came to current affairs. Then he’d checked the dates on the news articles; realised glumly that the height of the media circus had coincided with the death throes of his relationship with Summer, when he’d fixated on nothing but getting her back.)

He’s not sure how to react to Tommy now. He wonders if he should watch his words or if he’d ever inadvertently upset Tommy by dredging up bad memories. Then again, isn’t that patronising? Tommy isn’t a child – he’d just tell Tom if Tom pissed him off, wouldn’t he? But Tom doesn’t want to put a foot wrong. Then he worries he’ll put a foot wrong by worrying about it, and it’s like an endless, continuous loop of uncertainty. He’s never been able to deal well with uncertainty – it makes him brood, makes him dwell for hours.

So today, when Tommy throws his arm around Tom’s shoulders and starts leading him out of the gym, Tom has a sudden, _vivid_ memory of Tommy’s shoulder being wrenched into a position it was never meant to be in.

Tom locks up. Tommy notices immediately.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry. If I’m hungry, you must be _starving,_ ” Tom blurts, his volume completely off, and he speeds up, walking toward the diner without looking to see if Tommy’s following.

The short walk to the diner is uncomfortable, made even more so because Tommy seems to have taken Tom’s silence as some sort of lead. They slide into what’s become their usual booth with none of the talk or banter that Tom’s accustomed to. When the waitress comes by, it’s practically a godsend, because Tom has someone he can actually _look_ at, if only for a few minutes. But when she leaves, the suffocating silence descends again.

Tom stares at the table, at the condiments, at the other diners – anything other than Tommy. And Tommy just keeps quiet, like he’s waiting Tom out or something.

Tom can’t _not_ say something.

He steels himself. Clears his throat and says, “Look, don’t— don’t take this the wrong way or anything... I mean, I know this is going to sound really weird, but I kind of— I maybe, uh, googled you the other day?” It comes out as a question only because Tom’s voice goes up at the end.

His stomach feels knotted up, like it always does when he knows he’s crossed a line. He’d felt it when he’d stormed away from Summer after punching that douchebag for hitting on her. He’d felt it when he’d shouted at Autumn after she told him she loved him, but she wasn’t _in_ love with him.

He risks a glance at Tommy’s expression.

Tommy looks— well, he doesn’t look angry, but he’s not pleased either. He picks at his thumbnail, not looking at Tom as he says, “You coulda just asked me, man.” The resigned disappointment in his tone is actually worse than him being angry.

“Sorry,” Tom mumbles. “It just— it didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it.” _So you googled him rather than respect his privacy. There’s a logic flaw somewhere in there, Hansen._

Tommy shrugs and looks out the window rather than replying. And now _Tom’s_ the one left trying to read him. After a long tense silence, Tommy says, “I’m not... what they say on there, on those websites. That ain’t me, okay? None of that on there is me.”

Tom blinks. He almost smiles. “Well, yeah,” he says. “I know that. I didn’t read any of the articles that were like that.” And he hadn’t, really; not after he’d understood the gist of them. They were invariably sensationalist, jingoistic feature articles, or long polemic rants against the US military presence in the Middle East; they held Tommy up as either a symbol of American heroism, or a victim of the military industrial complex. None of them had anything on Tommy as a person.

(He _had_ been gripped by the urge to weigh in on the debate over whether it was right to imprison Tommy or not. Except the threads were months old, and he was pretty sure half the people on those forums were trolling.)

“I didn’t really read any of that stuff,” he says again. “I was just looking for facts. I was curious. Sorry. That’s not me making excuses, I was just— I’m nosy,” he says apologetically. Then, a little more dryly, he adds, “I’ve been told I have problems with respecting boundaries.” Many, many times by Rachel, among others.

That seems to amuse Tommy, at least. The corner of that full mouth – and Tom really shouldn’t be paying attention to it during a conversation like this, but he can’t help it – curls up. “Yeah, well, I beat people up for a living. I’m not all that good at boundaries either. Next time just ask me, okay?”

It sounds a lot like forgiveness, and Tom can’t help but beam. But then Tommy’s expression, although still warm and amused, turns slightly assessing. “This means you have to tell me something about you. Even us up a bit,” he says.

Tom smiles, still contrite. “Yeah, sure. What do you want to know? I’m assuming you want to know something more than just, like— where I went to school.” He pauses, then adds, “I went to Cal Poly SLO, though. If you did want to know that.”

Tommy snorts and shakes his head. “Nah, come on, man. You got my life story. Give me something juicy. Something I can sink my teeth into.” He grins and leans forward.

Tom’s smile dims a little as he takes in the look on Tommy’s face. It’s sly, suggestive. Almost like Tommy is daring Tom to back down, but promising to make it worth his while if he doesn’t. And Tom doesn’t know if it’s Tommy’s crooked grin, or the tone of his voice, or the way he leans in, or if it’s all of them combined. But whatever it is, it makes Tom blurt out: “I slept with a guy in college. Well, guys,” he amends. “Lots of guys.”

 _Oh, what the_ — he slaps a hand over his eyes. He can feel the blush creeping up his neck. “No, wait. _God_ , that came out wrong. I just meant— guys, as in plural. Not lots. It wasn’t lots.”

Tom doesn’t take his hand off his eyes, but the silence that follows is still excruciating. And then he hears Tommy clear his throat and say, “Yeah? Just in college?”

There’s a rasp to Tommy’s voice, and God it makes Tom want to squirm. He drops the hand from his eyes, even as he blushes harder. He can feel his ears going red, like they always do when he’s at his most embarrassed. The blood that isn’t going to his face is rushing south.

He starts to say, _yeah, just in college,_ but he’s pretty sure that’s not what Tommy’s asking - not exactly. And it feels like he’s edging over a precipice when he says slowly, “I haven’t been with a guy since college. Lack of opportunity, more than anything. I’m— I’m not that great at relationships, I guess.” Understatement. Complete and total understatement.

The look on Tommy’s face is... well. Tom stares back at him, more than a little wide-eyed.

And then the waitress returns with the check.

The odd, tense moment breaks, and Tom’s brief burst of courage deserts him entirely. He turns to the waitress - talks to her with more cheer than necessary, draws the small talk out as much as possible.

When he finally turns back, Tommy’s returned to sprawling back on his side of the diner booth, watching him. Neither of them says anything. Slowly but surely, the atmosphere starts to veer into awkwardness. And then:

“Hey,” Tommy says, “want to hear my shoulder pop?”

Thrown off, Tom blinks. “What?” After a beat, he realises Tommy means the shoulder his brother had dislocated in Sparta.

Tom scrunches his face up at the memory of the video before concern takes over. “You mean it’s still not okay? Should you— should you really be doing that?”

Tommy waves off his concern. “It’s fine.”

“Well, then... yeah.” It may be slightly gross, but it’s still _interesting_. Tom looks at the gore sub-reddit and watches injury compilation videos on YouTube with gruesome fascination, too.

Tommy grins. He gets up and deftly moves around to Tom’s side of the booth. “C’mere,” he says, putting an arm around Tom and pulling him in close. Tom’s skin goes hypersensitive at the touch; goes even more so as Tommy urges his head closer, against his shoulder. His fingers are warm against the nape of Tom’s neck; the warmth lingers even when Tommy takes his hand away.

And then Tom’s thoroughly distracted because Tommy grabs his own elbow, pulls it against his chest, and his shoulder makes a sickening _click-pop_ noise in Tom’s ear. It’s soft amidst the background noise of the diner, but it’s still easily distinguishable, and _completely_ disgusting. Tom starts grinning.

“My souvenir from Sparta,” Tommy says from above him. “Doesn’t hurt, but it freaks Brendan’s kids out.”

Tom bursts out laughing. “That’s sick,” he says, perversely delighted. He pulls away. He kind of doesn’t want to, but he’s been inappropriate enough for one day. Tommy’s phone chirps almost immediately afterward. Tom waves a hand at Tommy’s pocket. “I think you’re being summoned.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and digs his phone out, frowning at the screen. “Yeah,” he sighs. “No rest for the wicked.” He shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and drops some money on the table - it’s enough to cover both their meals and the tip, Tom knows.

But before he can protest that he _does_ actually work and could pay once in a while, Tommy says, “You coming back tomorrow? I could show you how to block.”

Tom wonders if it’s just his overactive imagination that interprets Tommy’s tone as hopeful. No, he decides, it’s hopeful. It’s _definitely_ hopeful.

He wrestles his grin into a more normal-looking smile - just barely. “Yeah, absolutely,” he says as they walk to the door. His voice turning wry, Tom adds, “I’ve learned how to take a punch since I’m not so hot at throwing them. It would be nice to learn how to stay conscious afterwards, though.”

He waves an amicable goodbye to Tommy from the sidewalk, then turns and starts walking in the opposite direction. Makes sure he’s a block away before he lets his grin break out across his face.

He’s got to tell someone about this.

 

-

 

Talking about relationships with Paul and McKenzie sometimes resembles a CW teen drama. Except their conversations are peppered with geeky tangents, Mac’s hearsay about what men and women want, and sent through a further filter of social awkwardness.

Tom winds down talking about Tommy quickly because— well, it’s not like he’s actually in a relationship with Tommy; they’re not— they’re not anything, really.

They’re not anything _yet_ , part of him says. Tom smiles to himself, hardly able to stop it from morphing into a stupid, full-on grin.

He looks up in time to see Mac and Paul glance at one another. Tom _knows_ that glance. The smile slides off his face.

“What?” he demands. It’s probably a little more defensive than the situation warrants.

Neither of his friends looks particularly keen on saying anything, but eventually Mac speaks. “...The guy sounds like a rebound. No offense, man.”

Tom’s _plenty_ offended - it makes his voice go up an entire octave when he repeats, in an entirely different tone of voice: “ _What?_ ”

Rather than reply, Mac loads another quarter into the Pac-man machine and starts playing. It’s _such_ an obvious avoidance tactic, Tom scowls.

Paul jumps in hurriedly. “I think what McKenzie means is that... well, look at it from our point of view, okay? You dated Summer, a girl who you only had... superficial... things in common with, and you thought she was The One. And it didn’t work out. Then you dated Autumn, a girl that you had _more_ in common with, and that didn’t work out either, and you thought that _she_ —”

“Yeah, thanks," Tom snaps, "I remember. I was there.”

Paul makes small placating gestures with his hands. “Okay, so they didn’t work out. And— and now you’re telling us you might be interested in a _guy_ , which you haven’t been since college, _and_ you tell us you met him at the gym, which you signed up to because you were mad about getting dumped. I mean—” Paul breaks off, making a back and forth kind of motion with his hands, as if to say: _can you see where we’re coming from here?_

Tom stares at Paul mutely. Put that way, his interest in Tommy seems _awful_.

But he tries not to sulk, or sound overtly hostile, when he says, “Okay, first off, just because I haven’t been with a guy since college doesn’t mean I magically stopped being interested in guys, okay? It’s not an on-off button.” Tom had thought they’d be smart enough to know _that_. But, then again, sometimes knowing something and _really_ knowing something could be totally different things.

Like knowing some people can make a career out of fighting, and _really_ knowing some people can make a career out of fighting. The thought almost makes him smile, and he's marginally less crapped off with Mac and Paul when he says, “And second, I didn’t join a gym because I was mad about being dumped, I was just trying to find something productive to do.”

“Okay,” Paul concedes, still making those appeasing hand gestures. “But what about interests? Do you actually have anything in common with this guy?”

“Something other than the fact you both like the penis,” Mac adds, nodding. Paul kicks him from underneath the table. Tom does too. “ _Ow!_ What?” Pac-Man dies a flashing, pixellated death to Inky. “Oh c’mon, I would’ve beaten that level.”

Tom ignores him. “Weren’t you just pointing out all my past relationships failed because I based them on superficial interests?”

Paul shrugs. “Well, yeah, but you need to have _something_ in common. You can’t just go completely the other way.”

Thrown, Tom stumbles. “Well... it’s not— we don’t really have stuff in common, I guess. Not like, common interests, as such.” He frowns at his latte. He doesn’t need to look up to know Paul and Mac are exchanging that look again.

After half a minute’s silence, Paul tries again. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t—”

“‘cos you’ll just go ahead and do it anyway, no matter what we— _ow_.” Mac rubs his arm and glares at Paul. Then he says, “Look, there’s nothing wrong with a booty-call relationship—”

“When have you _ever_ had a booty-call relationship, Mac?”

“Okay, well, I haven’t had one _myself_ , but I’ve heard there are several benefits—”

“Where do you get off telling me— I mean, how can you even know if you haven’t—”

“We’re not telling you to not go ahead,” Paul interrupts. “We’re just saying... well... don’t build up any illusions about it, okay?” Paul’s unspoken _you’ve done that enough times already_ is clear.

 

-

 

Paul and McKenzie are wrong about him and Tommy, he tells himself later. They’re not in possession of all the facts. They’re in possession of _a lot_ of facts, by way of knowing Tom for more than a decade, but still— not all the facts.

And then a small part of him, the one that always has to pipe up at times like these, goes: _They may be wrong about Tommy, but are they actually wrong about you?_ Because while they may not know Tommy, but they _do_ know Tom. They’ve been right about him - about how much of a disaster it’s been every other time he’s grown infatuated or fallen in love.

But they’re wrong this time. Tom’s sure of it.

...No, he’s not.

So Tom does what he always does when he’s confused over his love life: he calls his sister.

“Yo yo yiggity yo,” Rachel says, after picking up on the fifth ring.

“... Did you just quote _Juno_? That’s from Juno. Who let you watch Juno?”

“I’m thirteen now,” Rachel says. Her eye roll is clearly evident in her voice; it almost feels like she’s sitting right in front of him.

And that makes Tom rolls _his_ eyes, grinning. Like Rachel would’ve bothered waiting until she was thirteen before downloading it. “How’ve you been, Rach?” he says.

Rather than answer, she says, “Paul called me.” Definite smirk in her voice.

Tom rolls his eyes again - no smile this time. “Of course he did.” He drops onto his bed. Suddenly on edge, he switches his phone to his left hand, picks up a piece of chalk and starts drawing absently on his chalkboard wall.

“Paul said he’s famous. _A UFC fighter_.” She’s laughing a little as she says it, but in disbelief, not scorn.

“Yeah, he, um. He kind of is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tommy.”

“ _Tommy?_ Seriously? Tom and Tommy, huh?” Rachel laughs again. “Does Tommy have a last name?” Tom thinks he can hear the clack and rattle of a keyboard over the phone.

“Are you— _are you trying to google him?_ ”

“Please, like you didn’t google the shit out of him the second you were done talking to him.”

“I didn’t, actually,” he says, primly. Rachel’s pointed silence rings in his ears. He amends it to: “Well, not _right_ after I was done talking to him. I waited three weeks.”

“Uh-huh,” Rachel says, unimpressed. “Last name.”

Tom gives up. “Riordan,” he says, and spells it for her.

More keyboard clacking, then: “ _Holy shit_ , Thomas Hansen. How are you not tapping that already? I mean— _hi_ , I’d like a side order of some of that, please.” More clicking and Rachel just keeps carrying on that vein.

 _Christ._ Tom puts a hand over his eyes. “Rachel,” he pleads, trying to talk over the top of her, “please don’t talk like that. _Please_. You’re thirteen and I’m your brother. Let me maintain the illusion that you have zero interest in men for a little while longer. I mean, show a bit of compassion here.”

Rachel shows none, just keeps going, “— _seriously_ , look at his traps, they’re like _slabs_ —”

“ _Rach!_ ”

She stops abruptly, laughing so loudly he can hear her even with the phone held a foot away. Tom waits for her to finish then puts it back to his ear.

“Okay, okay,” she says, still a little breathless from laughter. “So he’s hot and you haven’t tapped that yet. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Didn’t Paul tell you already?” His tone is not-quite sarcastic.

“Paul told me what _he_ thinks is going on,” Rachel points out reasonably, ignoring his tone. “That doesn’t mean he really knows what’s going on, or that it’s even remotely close to what _you_ think is going on. Tell me.”

So Tom does, in stops and starts.

It’s hardly normal, their relationship. She’s his half-sister – born to Tom’s mom and his step-father, Martin – but he’s closer to her than he’s ever been to his parents, biological or otherwise. They’d both weathered their parents’ benign, absent-minded neglect and come out an irrevocably united pair from it, although Tom fears he needs her far more than she’ll ever need him.

“So,” he says when he’s done. He’s suddenly nervous all over again. “Do you think Paul and Mac are right?”

Rachel is quiet for a while before she asks, “Why do you like him?”

Thrown, Tom says, “Well— I don’t know...”

“Not sounding too good here, boyo.”

“ _No_ — I said I don’t know because, well, I have a lot of reasons. I couldn’t just pick one off the top of my head.”

“Name one.”

“What?”

“Name one. It’s not that hard.”

Tom looks at the ceiling. “Okay. He’s funny. He makes me laugh.” God, could he sound any more like a teenage girl? Except he’s talking to an _actual_ teenage girl and Rachel’s never sounded half as pathetic as he does right now.

“Alright. Give me another.”

Tom lets out a hard breath, then shrugs a little. “He’s easy to talk to. I like talking to him. I’m pretty sure he likes talking to me. Sometimes we don’t know what the hell either of us is saying - he doesn’t know about architecture and I don’t know anything about MMA, but— he listens to me. And I listen to him. I mean, I know I’m shit at listening to people sometimes, but I’m _trying_.” _It’s better than I’ve done in the past_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. He doesn’t have to; Rachel knows anyway.

But she doesn’t say anything and, wanting to keep the inevitable judgement at bay, he rushes to fill the silence. “I get why Paul and Mac think it’s a bad idea - I _do_. I really do. But this is different, Rach,” And, Jesus, he’s said that before, hasn’t he? Every single time, with every new relationship. “It _is_ different. He doesn’t— he calls me out when I’m being an idiot. I like it.” It’s a bizarre thing to like, but it’s also freeing because— “I don’t have to do anything to impress him. It’s like he’s more impressed with me when I’m being... normal.”

“You’re never normal.”

“Shut up,” he says, grinning, before sobering again. “I don’t have to do anything to impress him,” he repeats. “I mean, I tried, because, you know, I’m an idiot, but he doesn’t seem to want me to. He doesn’t expect me to. He just likes it when I’m... me around him. I feel more real when I’m around him.” He lapses into pink, embarrassed silence again.

Rachel takes a breath, and there’s a smile in her voice when she says, “Listen to you, Thomas Hansen. No mention of Bananafish or weird kitschy crap anywhere. It almost sounds like you’re growing up. They all sounded like pretty good reasons to me.”

Tom beams at nothing in particular.


	4. The Sweet Science

Today, Tom decides, he’s going to say something. To Tommy. He’s not going to say just anything, filling up the half hour or so of lunch with harmless conversation and chatter. No - today he’s going to say _something_.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or when he’s going to say it, or even how he’s going to say it—

_(He has a brief, mortifying memory of saying, “Oh, I think you know what I need,” to Summer, then spends an excruciating minute resisting the urge to punch himself in the face.)_

—but he’s going to say something.

That conviction lasts him all the way to the gym, and all through the hour or so he spends at the boxing bag. It even lasts the length of the short walk from his chosen bag to the boxing ring, when he hears the familiar sound of Frank calling for a break.

Tommy is towelling his face and talking to Frank, but he looks over the second Tom approaches. Frank rolls his eyes when Tommy's attention turns away, but he wanders off without saying a word.

“Hey,” Tommy says easily, grinning at Tom. His grin is slightly crooked, wholly gorgeous, and, just like that, Tom’s conviction vanishes. His courage evaporates like mist in the morning sun, and his insecurities, never far away to begin with, come rushing in to fill the void.

Just what the hell is he thinking, acting like he’s got a chance with Tommy? Just— _look at him,_ Tom thinks. _Seriously, look at him. You’re deluding yourself, Hansen. As usual._

“Hey,” he says, before lapses into nervous silence. He kind of wants to slap himself. Or turn on his heel, walk out, and never return to the gym again.

Tom reminds himself of the quiet rasp in Tommy’s voice when he asked if Tom had only slept with guys in college; the look on his face and his hopeful tone when he’d asked if Tom was coming back the next day. Tommy is interested. Against all probability and reason, _he’s_ _interested in Tom_.

 _It’s not just your imagination,_ Tom tells himself. It’s not hopeless. He just has to say something.

Like... now.

...Or, well, on second thought, maybe not _right_ now, since they’re standing in the middle of the gym, and asking Tommy out in the middle of the gym can only end up being the ultimate exercise in social awkwardness. But soon. Maybe on the way to the diner? Or— or maybe after lunch? If Tom _has_ been reading everything wrong these past few weeks and Tommy _isn’t_ interested, at least he’ll be fed, right? No point in being rejected _and_ hungry.

Right. Okay. So that’s settled then. After lunch. He’ll say something after lunch.

…Wait, how long has he been standing here staring? Tom gives himself a quick mental shake then strikes out toward some semblance of normalcy.

“Ready to go?” He asks. Okay. That’s alright. That’s what he usually says. That’s normal.

“Sure,” Tommy says, tossing the towel aside. He comes up beside Tom, slings an arm over his shoulders, and starts leading him away from the ring.

Tom lets himself be led. Tommy’s skin is still warm from exertion, and the warmth leeches quickly into Tom’s neck, into his shoulders. He has to resist the urge to lean against Tommy’s side, or turn his head to nose along Tommy’s jawline and breathe in the scent of him.

Not that he needs to turn his head. They’re close enough that Tom can already smell him, and Tommy smells _good_. Nothing complicated - just sweat, and soap, and maybe a little bit of that talcum powder that gets dusted into the boxing gloves. But it’s enough to get Tom’s mouth a little wet. It’s enough to send a shiver of desire through him and make his knees go slightly weak.

Tom’s pretty sure he’d get down on his knees right now if Tommy asked him to.

 _Right,_ he tells himself, _when you actually do say something,_ do not _say that. There’s hitting on someone, and then there’s being creepy and inappropriate. That’s creepy and inappropriate. And desperate. Do not be desperate. No one likes desperate. Okay? Okay._

He’s so focused on his mental lecture that it takes him several seconds to realise Tommy is talking to him. He’s saying something about— about blocking? Boxing? Shit. Tom turns his head to look at him, hoping he doesn’t look as inattentive as he actually is.

No such luck.

Tommy smiles teasingly at him. “Million miles away today, Hansen. Am I boring you?”

“No,” Tom says quickly. “No, not all. I was just— thinking.”

“When aren’t you?” Tommy says, amused, as he pushes the diner door open. After they slide into their usual booth, he adds, “What were you thinking about?”

 _Oh, nothing really, just thinking about how I’d gladly suck you off if you said the word. You know how it is._ “...Work.”

“You’re thinking about work on your day off?”

“Says the guy who trains six days a week.”

Tommy shrugs easily. “I’m not thinking while I’m fighting.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. He’s watched Tommy fight. And Tom’s hardly an expert, but even he can tell Tommy doesn’t fight mindlessly. He fights with an instinct honed by training, maybe, but not mindlessly. Still. Tom’s not an expert, so— “Whatever you say,” he says, shrugging.

They slip into an easy back-and-forth over lunch, and it’s nice. Familiar. Tom finds his nerves easing. It’s suddenly not that insane that Tommy would be interested. They get along. They make one another laugh. Why _wouldn’t_ it work?

During the short lulls when they’re not talking, Tom tries to plan a— well, not a _script,_ because that would be ridiculous, but a... a rough draft, maybe. Of how their conversation could go. He tries to figure out how he can segue smoothly, if not necessarily suavely (because Tom and suave are passing acquaintances, at best), from their regular conversation to asking Tommy out.

He needs potential opening lines, he decides. Right now, he’s only got ‘I’d like to get down on my knees and blow you’, which... yeah. He’s not saying that. That might’ve worked in college, when he (and everyone else) was wasted or high, but Tom’s not in college anymore. Nor is he wasted or high.

Tom wracks his brain, but everything he comes up with sounds either hopelessly vague or embarrassingly vulgar. Not for the first time, he curses the fact he’d worked at New Hampshire Greetings for so freaking long - it’s clearly screwed with his ability to craft normal sentences. And, far too soon, the half hour lunch break is up. Tom still has absolutely nothing (other than that one line that he’s _not_ going to say).

Tommy pays for both their meals - _again,_ over Tom’s protests - and then they’re back out on the sidewalk. Tom tries to ignore the sudden bloom of returning nervousness in his gut.

Okay. So. _This is it,_ he tells himself. _After lunch, just like you planned. Time to say something._

Tom opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He shuts his mouth with a snap, trying not to let his frustration show, even as part of him throws itself down on the floor and pitches an almighty tantrum. He’s only got a minute, maybe less, before Tommy smiles and nods at him, and says he’ll see him later. And if that happens, Tom knows it’ll be all over. He’ll lose his nerve entirely, forever.

_It’s now or never, Hansen. Say something._

Tom takes a deep breath, opens his mouth again—

Right as Tommy says abruptly: “So, am I getting anywhere with you on these dates or should I just throw in the towel?”

Tom’s mouth drops open a little further as his brain grinds to a halt.

He stares at Tommy - gapes at him, really. Tommy stares back, although his gaze darts away and back every few seconds. The expression on his face is a curious blend of determined, awkward and embarrassed, and the idea of Tommy feeling awkward and embarrassed over _Tom_ is—

 _Come on,_ part of him says. _Now you_ really _need to say something._

Tom looks back at the diner they’d just exited. “...Those were dates?” He asks weakly.

Tommy blinks at him. “Man, I’ve been paying for every meal,” he says, his awkwardness fading into incredulous amusement. “How did you not get what was going on?” 

“...I did offer to pay my share,” Tom says, trying not to turn red.

Tommy’s mouth starts twitching, in the way that signals he’s about to start teasing. A second later, the twitching smile transforms into a full-blown grin and he says, “And I said I’m an old fashioned guy. What did you think that meant?”

There are a lot of things Tom could say to that. Part of him wants to protest that, hey— he doesn’t need to be wined and dined like a girl. Another part wants to say _I thought you were just being nice_. Yet another part - probably the most honest part - wants to say _I hoped, but I didn’t really want to get my hopes up._

What comes out of his mouth, however, is some garbled mish-mash of the three.

_Christ._

Tom closes his eyes, mortified. When he opens them, Tommy is still grinning. He punches Tom lightly on the arm and says, “Guess this means I can finally invite you back to my place, huh?”

Yes. Yes, _fuck yes._ Tom wants to say yes. He even _opens his mouth_ to say yes, and it’s at that point that his brain - with all its requisite anxieties - decides to come fully back online.

Tom hates his brain. He hates it so very much _._ He’s pretty sure he’s the only man on the West Coast who’s capable of cockblocking _himself_. It’s like a superpower. A really shitty superpower.

 _But,_ his brain says, as merciless as a root canal, _what exactly is Tommy after? Better to know now than half a year from now, right?_

Is Tommy looking for a casual thing? Like Summer? Like Tom had done with guys in college? That’s not— that’s not what Tom’s after. But what if that’s what Tommy wants? Then again, what if Tommy wants more than that? It’s not like Tom’s ever managed to have a successful long-term relationship before. _What if he fucks it up?_

Paralysed by uncertainty, he goggles silently at Tommy.

He must look ridiculous, or pathetic - or maybe ridiculously pathetic - because Tommy’s teasing expression softens. He reaches out and cups the back of Tom’s neck, the palm of his hand warm and calloused. “Hey,” he says, laughing a little. “I was joking, Hansen. I’m good to take it slow. Whatever. It’s cool.”

His reassurance gets Tom’s tongue unstuck, although perhaps not in the way Tommy had intended. Tom flushes red in embarrassment and irritation. A little at Tommy, but mostly at himself. 

“I’m not— I don’t need you to take it slow,” Tom says, his mouth screwing up. “I’m not some delicate virgin you need to treat like glass. I just— don’t know what you want. Out of this.”

 _Yeah, that’s the way,_ he despairs. _Start sounding like a crazy person right off the bat._ He’d clearly learned nothing from Summer and Autumn.

Tommy raises an eyebrow. His gaze has long since stopped darting around nervously, and he stares right at Tom as he steps into his personal space, crowding him. Tom resists the urge to step back. They’re almost nose to nose, close enough that Tom can feel the warmth radiating from Tommy all along his front, chest to thigh. The arousal banked low in his belly ratchets up.

“What do I want out of this?” Tommy says, his voice a low murmur. “I want to take you out again. I want to get to know you better. I want you in my bed. And I want to finally teach you how throw a decent left hook. That all goes well and you still want more from me? I’m up for that.”

Tom thinks he’s gaping a little. That— _who talks like that?_ Well, Tommy, does. Clearly. And he’d answered Tom’s question thoroughly, with all the straightforwardness that Tom’s gotten used to. So why the _hell_ is Tom still hesitating?

 _Screw it,_ Tom thinks. He’s tried being deliberate. He’s tried planning and he’s tried thinking things through. Enough of that. Maybe it’s time he tried something different.

So Tom stops thinking. He reaches out, wraps a hand around the back of Tommy’s neck, fists his other hand in Tommy’s shirt, and pulls him in for a kiss.

It isn’t delicate. It’s open mouthed, wet, slightly rough, and it’s _amazing_. It’s fucking incredible, because Tommy kisses like he’s thinking of nothing else, like he’s pouring his whole self into the kiss, and _God_ , Tom just wants more.

Tommy seems to be having the same idea - the hand on the back of Tom’s neck slides up into his hair, Tommy’s other hand gripping his hip. Tom makes a noise - quiet and breathless and _wanting_. He hauls Tommy in closer, kisses him harder, the tension from weeks and weeks of circling one another finally snapping.

Tommy breaks the kiss after a minute, panting a little. “Fucking finally,” he says. The low, warm rumble of his voice goes straight to Tom’s cock. And the light nip that Tommy delivers to his bottom lip afterwards very nearly undoes him.

Tommy pulls back, but he lingers in Tom’s space. Tom could easily reel him back in with just a small tug if he wanted to. He takes one, two seconds to breathe - just enough the take edge off the breathless dizziness - and then he’s pulling Tommy back to him, chasing Tommy’s mouth with his own.

This time, the kiss turns lewd - Tom runs his tongue along Tommy’s bottom lip; nudges it past the edge of Tommy’s teeth, teases it lightly against the tip of Tommy’s tongue. And that gets Tommy pushing forward, crowding him. Tom’s back hits the brick, and it’s only Tommy’s hand cradling the back of his head that stops his head from smacking against it too.

It’s a sweet, gentle gesture - a marked contrast to the urgency of their kiss. It makes Tom smile. Then Tommy presses his body against his, and Tom’s brain stutters to a stop as he groans. He pulls away to suck one quick, ragged breath then dives back in for another kiss.

Tom thinks he might be grinding against Tommy a little, against the hard press of muscle and warm skin that he can feel through the layers of their clothes. It feels _fantastic_ \- more than fantastic, if he’s being honest - but they’re outside the diner, and it’s barely past noon. There are— public indecency laws. Those still exist, right? Tom can’t quite remember.

He stops after one last nip at Tommy’s full lower lip. It’s... a nice mouth. It’s a _gorgeous_ mouth, and Tom’s eyes stay locked on it as he says, “You said you were going to invite me back to your place?”

Tommy’s boxing him in, hands on either side of Tom’s head, and he’s— Tom can feel the weight of Tommy’s erection pressed against his thigh. He barely manages to suppress a groan.

“I still gotta finish training,” Tommy says, his voice more than a little regretful. “But I can probably get out in a couple of hours. You free tonight?”

Tom swallows his disappointment down. Telling his body to knock it off is a little harder. Jesus, he’s going to have to go find somewhere private and jerk off. He should go _home_ and do that. Instead, because he’s apparently determined to torture himself, he breathes, “Yeah. I— should I wait for you at the gym? I don't have anywhere I need to be.”

God. So much for not sounding desperate.

Tommy’s twitching grin is back, signalling that Tom has about three seconds before Tommy starts yanking his chain. Wanting to forestall the teasing, Tom grips Tommy by waist, pulls him in close, and grinds his hips against Tommy’s, slow and deliberate.

The friction is— it’s fucking brilliant. It’s enough to make Tom’s mouth go slack and his breath shudder, but Tommy's reaction is even better. His eyes go dark and hooded, and he groans, his teeth bared.

“Fuck it,” he says, pushing off the wall. He digs his hand into his pocket and starts texting, presumably telling Frank he’s not coming back. Tom grins. He grins wider when Tommy takes his hand and starts walking, saying, “I'm two blocks up. You closer?”

“We’re going to yours,” Tom says immediately, pushing at Tommy's shoulder to hurry him onward, even as he gets tugged along. Their intentions are probably completely obvious to anyone looking - their faces are flushed and their clothes are rucked up - but Tom can’t find it in himself to care.

He wants Tommy. He wants this fascinating, insanely attractive man, and the thought that Tommy may want him back is heady. It charges his blood, strips away his nerves and his hesitation. It strips away his inhibitions a little too, and Tom can’t help but run his hand along Tommy’s shoulders, his back, and his ass as they walk. The walk to Tommy's apartment takes no time at all, but Tom still has no memory of the route. His attention is fixated entirely on Tommy, and, as Tommy fumbles for his key, Tom takes advantage of his distraction to slide his palms over the curve of Tommy's ass again.

Tommy abandons the search for his keys in favour of grabbing him. He pins Tom against the door and kisses him again - quick and fleeting - before moving away to trail his mouth along Tom’s jaw, down his neck.

“You little goddamn tease,” Tommy says, as he presses a kiss to the side of Tom’s throat. There’s desire and affection both in his voice, and Tom bursts out laughing.

Even though he’s just been shoved up against a door, he’s feeling weirdly, _ridiculously_ powerful. He ducks his head so he can catch Tommy’s mouth up in a kiss.

“ _I’m_ a tease?” he says between kisses. “You’ve been yanking my chain for weeks. You train _without your shirt on_ even though it’s freezing. You knew I was watching, don’t lie—”

“LA’s cold is nothing compared to Pittsburgh’s. Or Seattle’s.”

“Uh-huh,” Tom replies, still smiling. “Get the door open. Or I’ll blow you out here.” It’s blunter, more forward than he’s ever been in his life. But right now, he’s in a mood to dare.

And, just like that, Tommy finds his key, gets the door unlocked. Tom almost stumbles backward as the door swings open behind him, but Tommy has him, catching him easily around the waist. He doesn’t pause to steady Tom, though. Just starts backing him into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

Tom goes easily, yanking Tommy along just as much as Tommy is walking him backward. Tommy’s hands are sliding beneath his shirt, calloused palms dragging maddeningly against sensitised skin. The second they clear the entryway, Tommy yanks Tom’s shirt over his head and tosses it aside, his movements hungry and intent.

The instant his shirt comes off, Tom hunches his shoulders reflexively. He's never been self-conscious about his body, not exactly - there’ve been enough girls _and_ guys to let him know he’s not unattractive - but... well, he doesn’t look anything like Tommy. He feels incredible _scrawny_ in front of him, even as Tommy runs his hands along his torso in open appreciation.

“You can’t say shit like that to me, man,” Tommy growls. “You think I wouldn’t fucking put you on your knees where everyone could see you?”

And that, of all things, makes Tom pull his shoulders back. 

It feels a bit like a challenge, and, even though he knows Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, it’s enough to hold his self-consciousness at bay. Tom lifts his chin. “You wouldn’t be putting me anywhere I wasn’t already willing to go,” he says, grinning.

Without preamble, he backs Tommy up against the wall. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Tommy’s sweat pants, and - feeling incredibly grateful for the ease of access provided by sportswear - yanks them down as he drops to his knees.

Tommy’s gaze zeroes in on his mouth. He reaches down, brushes his thumb over Tom’s lower lip then pushes it into Tom’s mouth; Tom curls his tongue around it, sucking lightly. He bites gently at the pad of Tommy’s thumb when Tommy pulls it out so he can grip himself firmly. And then it’s Tom’s turn to drop his gaze. What he sees gets his mouth more than a little wet.

Tommy’s cock is just as gorgeous as the rest of him - hard, flushed red, with a bead of wetness at the tip that Tom wants so badly to lick away.

The last of his nervousness burns away, because this— this is familiar. It’s almost a throwback to college, really, except he's never wanted to suck a guy’s dick as much as he wants to suck Tommy’s. Except no guy Tom has ever been with has just waited for him to take charge. It’s always been: _well, Tom’s built like a twink, so he must enjoy being treated like one, right?_

Yet here’s Tommy - the biggest, most macho guy that Tom has ever— well, okay, they haven’t fucked _yet._ But he’s the biggest guy Tom is _about_ to fuck, and he’s just... waiting. Like he’s completely willing to stay there until Tom takes the lead. And _God_ , that sends a white-hot jolt of _something_ through Tom. He wants to make it good for Tommy, as best as he knows how.

Tommy already has himself in hand, so Tom makes do with putting his hands on Tommy’s thighs - those massive thighs that he’s eyed surreptitiously at the gym, along with the rest of Tommy’s body, to use as masturbation fodder later. It’s everything he’d imagined, but better.

He gazes up at Tommy; maintains that eye contact, right up until his tongue touches the tip of Tommy’s dick, until he tastes the salt-wet of his pre-come. Then he can't help it. His eyelids drop to half-mast and he opens his mouth to give the head one good, _hard_ suck before moving off again. He thinks he feels a tremble in the muscles of Tommy’s thighs, but Tommy still doesn’t move. Tom beams at him, inordinately pleased.

He runs his tongue along the length of Tommy's cock, right from where Tommy's gripping the base, back up to the tip. And then he opens his mouth wide and takes Tommy in, as far as he can get him. 

He can’t deep throat, but he still remembers how to work his tongue and his lips to make it feel good. Tom busts out every trick he knows. Part of him thinks he ought to feel embarrassed - like he shouldn’t _actually_ be fulfilling every twink stereotype ever - but he just can’t summon up the will to care. Not with Tommy like this, patient and steady above him; Tom fucking _loves_ it.

He seals his mouth tight around Tommy’s cock, works his tongue against the underside - rubs it especially hard just beneath the head. Tommy is already leaking onto his tongue in an almost steady drip, and Tom just wants more. He sucks hard enough that his cheeks hollow and the sound of him working his mouth on Tommy’s dick is clearly audible.

And it _is_ audible, because Tommy’s almost dead silent, saving for his breathing, which has gone erratic. The silence is— unsettling. Tom can feel the muscles in Tommy’s thighs flexing harder than ever, but he’s _quiet_. Incredibly quiet, and Tom glances up at Tommy from beneath his lashes, a sudden spike of uncertainty running through him.

Tommy meets his gaze immediately - pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, mouth slack. He lifts a hand and runs it through Tom’s hair, saying, “You’re like a wet fucking dream, man.”

His voice is a gorgeous wreck, and Tom’s not sure if it’s the words, or Tommy’s tone, or everything combined— but it makes him fuck his mouth down on Tommy so quickly he almost chokes.

And _that_ pulls a moan out of Tommy - loud, obscene, borderline pornographic, and— _God,_ fuck yes, Tommy sounds amazing, and Tom will do whatever it takes to hear more of it. He takes a hand off Tommy's thigh to grind his palm roughly against the front of his pants, replaying the sound in his head.

Not that he needs to, because soon there’s a filthy, steady stream of moans, half-formed sentences and swearing coming from above him. Tommy’s hips have started twitching - short, barely aborted thrusts into Tom’s mouth. As Tom gives him one particularly hard suck, Tommy squeezes his fist tight around the base of his cock and grits out, “Not— fuck. Not long now.”

Tom’s so hard he could almost _cry._  But he’s not that far gone that he doesn’t realise that that’s both a warning and a question. He pulls his mouth off Tommy's cock long enough to ask— pant out, really: “How long will it take you to get hard again?”

And that's presumptuous of him, he knows it is, but Jesus— he hadn't even thought he'd get this far. He'll work on convincing Tommy for a second round, if he has to. He sucks Tommy back in, ignoring the ache in jaw and the numbness that’s settling into his lips.

Tommy starts running his hands over Tom’s shoulders, his neck, the side of his face. The touches are light, restless - too much and not enough all at once, and Tom channels all his frustration into ensuring that Tommy forgets his own fucking _name_ when he comes.

Tommy’s going to come soon - Tom can feel it in the tremble of his muscles, can taste it in the steady drip of pre-come on his tongue. He can hear it in Tommy’s voice as Tommy pants out, barely coherent, “God, please, fuck— sorry, I gotta—” before breaking off into another moan.

“Coming,” he gasps a second later, and Tom doesn’t pull away, just sinks his mouth down an inch further. Tommy’s cock grows impossibly harder, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, over Tom’s tongue, into his mouth. Tom stays on him, throat working, and he doesn’t move away until Tommy’s cock stops pulsing and Tommy sags back against the wall.

Almost dizzy from lack of air, Tom leans back, pants for breath. But only for a few seconds, and then he shoves himself to his feet, pushes himself up against Tommy. Why he hasn’t taken his own pants off yet, he has no idea. Tom fumbles with the waistband, shoving at them.

After a few beats, Tommy seems to recover - and Tom’s proud, fucking _proud_ to have put that dazed look on his face - and helps him get them off.

Tom presses himself against Tommy- finally, _finally_ \- skin to skin, nothing in between, thank God. He grinds himself against Tommy's hip and he has to grit his teeth against that first burst of pleasure; ends up hissing and groaning through his subsequent thrusts anyway.

He traces blindly along Tommy’s jawline with his lips, his tongue; along Tommy’s chin, up to that goddamn gorgeous mouth that Tom’s spent more than one night coming into his hand over. And he should be more polite about this, really, some guys don't like—

But Tommy just opens up his lips for him, even licks into Tom's mouth, wet and lewd, and Tom _has_ to buck against him, groaning. He breaks the kiss after a second, moving away only far enough to speak intelligibly.

“How much,” Tom pants out, “How much do I have to beg to get your hand on me?” His voice cracks a little, and that’s desperate - that sounds beyond desperate - but God, he’ll do it. He’ll happily beg if that’s what Tommy wants. He keeps thrusting against Tommy all the while. He doesn't think he could pull back if he tried.

Tommy buries his face in Tom’s neck and groans, sounding almost like he’s in pain. “Beg if you want, I’m gonna touch you either way,” he growls.

Tommy slides his hand down between their bodies. He presses Tom’s cock against his stomach, his hip, rubbing firmly. Tom bucks against him, swearing. Tommy grins at him, a quick flash of teeth, and then he’s gripping Tom’s cock tightly in one calloused fist. He jacks that fist in a slow, steady rhythm, and strokes his thumb over the head of Tom’s cock in a way that gets Tom’s eyes rolling back and his breath stuttering.

“Like that? That what you wanted?” Tommy says into his ear, voice low and his accent thicker than ever. Tom lets out a sound - a whine, really - and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so fucking turned on.

He tries to shut himself up, to catch Tommy’s mouth in a kiss, but Tommy has other ideas. He lowers his head, starts licking and nipping in a line up from Tom’s shoulder to his ear; Tom squirms and fucks harder into Tommy’s hand.

For a good minute, his entire world narrows down to just Tommy: to his hand, stroking Tom’s cock with quick, sure movements, now, and Tommy's mouth on his skin.

Down low in his belly, the arousal tightens and the pleasure rockets up. Tom curls against Tommy, one hand cradling Tommy’s head, the other still gripping his shoulder. He pushes his face against the side of Tommy’s neck, and it seems almost tender, except Tom is still rutting desperately into the tight clutch of Tommy’s fist. Except the sound of Tommy’s hand working his cock is slick, wet, _obscene._

There’s a particularly deft twist of Tommy’s hand, and Tom _has_ to sink his teeth into the flesh of Tommy’s shoulder then. Even so, the moan he lets out is unbelievably loud.

“Please,” he gasps against Tommy’s skin, mouthing and licking it absently, thought-blank and drunk on body sensation. He isn’t even paying attention to what he’s saying, he just _wants_. “Please, please, please, I want— I want to come, please, _God—_ ”

Tommy grips him tighter, and that— everything, all of it - the hard nip Tommy delivers just behind Tom’s ear, the way Tommy speeds up on the upstroke and thumbs the head of Tom's cock - pushes Tom past the brink.

He tightens his hand in Tommy’s hair and _yanks,_ undoubtedly painfully, and _oh God_ , he's going to have to apologise for that, he really is, but he can’t speak. He comes, messy and wet, all over Tommy’s hand, bucking and shouting a little through his orgasm.

The world goes a little hazy at the edges afterwards. Tom leans heavily against Tommy, too blissed out to feel apologetic about it. After half a minute, Tommy nudges Tom’s chin, tips his face up for a kiss. The kiss is a little lacking in the finesse department - nothing more than an open-mouthed press of their lips - but that’s totally fine by Tom. He doesn’t think he has the motor coordination to manage anything fancier anyway.

“Glad I took the day off,” Tommy says, half into Tom’s mouth. “Think you just about killed me, Hansen.” He gives Tom another quick kiss before adding, “You back with me?”

“Mmm,” Tom says. “Coming back, yeah.”

He uncurls his fingers, releasing Tommy’s hair from that too-tight grip. He smooths his hair down, rubs his fingers lightly against his scalp. “Sorry,” he says, with an apologetic kiss. He nudges Tommy’s lips open, just enough to slide a bit of tongue in. He flicks the tip lightly against Tommy’s, before letting the kiss turn chaste again.

They trade a few more lazy kisses, before Tommy pulls away. “Hey, you said you don’t have anywhere to be today, yeah?” He asks. Tom nods, smiling. Tommy grins back. “Want to stick around for a while?”

“If you've got a shower. Or a bed.” Tom leans more of his weight against Tommy, partly because he enjoys the solid press of Tommy’s body against his, and partly because his legs have gone boneless. He laughs breathlessly. “I don't really think I can keep standing up for much longer. I mean, I can lie down on the floor. That's good too. Horizontal. Flat.”

Tommy smirks at him. He nips at Tom’s jaw, saying, “Shower first, then bed. Stay awake, man. I’ve got plans for you.”

The smirk morphs into that twitching grin again. And Tom’s only known Tommy for a few weeks, but a few weeks is enough for alarm bells to go off in his head. But before he can react, Tommy grabs his arm, bends down, and hauls him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

The world tips on its axis and Tom squawks inelegantly. “What the _hell?_ ” He says, breathless and laughing once the shock passes. “You’re a caveman now? _Seriously?_ ”

Tommy just laughs. It’s a bright, pleased sound in the quiet of the apartment, and Tom can’t help but grin. It’s quiet in his head - all his nerves quelled, all his anxious thoughts silenced. He likes it. He likes it a lot. He's pretty sure he could get used to it - used to _Tommy_ \- very quickly.

Tom grins wider.

And then he lets out another squawk, his arms windmilling uselessly, as Tommy tightens his arms around his thighs, and carries him off to the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession to make. I actually finished this in June.
> 
> ...And then I sat on it for a month because I thought smugrobotics was going to add a Tommy POV.
> 
> It only became clear to me tonight, as I was chatting with smug, that Tommy's POV was going to be an ENTIRELY SEPARATE CHAPTER, and smug was being an absolute darling, trying not to pressure me because she thought I had writer's block.
> 
> But no. I'm just an IDIOT who delayed this chapter for a month for NO REASON. I'm laughing and crying from embarrassment at the same time.


	5. Sucker Punch

They’re in and out of the shower in about ten minutes – just enough time to let the water heat up and wash the sweat and come off of their skin. It’s not that Tommy couldn’t spend a good half hour in there - press Tom up against the tile and let his hands wander, but the shower is cramped, and slippery. It’d be fucking stupid to get a career ending injury because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself for long enough to get to the bed.

Once they are on the bed, though, Tommy lets himself touch. It’s nice, different from the frantic fuck in Tommy’s living room. They’re both still riding the endorphins pumping lazily into their brains, and though they trade soft, lingering kisses, the urgency has ebbed enough that neither pushes for much else.  

The quiet, easy atmosphere doesn’t last for long, though. The muscles in Tom’s back start to tense under Tommy’s hands, and his kisses turn harder. Tommy doesn’t consider himself an expert on a lot, but if there are two things he excels at, it’s beating guys down and reading people. Right now, Tom’s all but holding up a sign that reads ‘something is wrong’.

Tommy’s suspicions are confirmed when Tom pulls back with an annoyed huff, looking at Tommy through his wet, overly long fringe.

"Uh... should we— maybe we should talk about this?"

Tommy shelves the hazy plans that had been creeping into the back of his mind - namely, tongue-fucking Tom’s mouth for awhile - and settles back against the pillows. “Mm?” Tommy prompts, keeping his body language loose despite the troubled look on Tom’s face. “Everything okay?”

Tom opens his mouth. He manages to get out, "Uh," then shuts it again. His jaw is working slightly, and it looks like he’s chewing up and swallowing down his words instead of spitting them out. Tommy keeps quiet and just stares at him. During the past few weeks he’s learned that, if he keeps quiet long enough, lets Tom work through what he wants to say in his mind, he’ll eventually get it out.

Tom doesn’t disappoint. After another minute of that wide-eyed look, he slowly starts to speak again.

"I—uh. Outside the diner. Before we came here, you said you might be open to more than just—this," Tom says, gesturing vaguely between the pair of them. "Not—not that I'm _expecting_ more. Or anything. Just—" he breaks off, frowning at some point past Tommy’s shoulder. "Do you... date guys often?"

"No," Tommy answers without hesitation. The frown on Tom’s face almost immediately shifts into a saddened, resigned sort of acceptance, which is unexpected enough to make Tommy stumble, getting out some jumbled syllables before clearing his throat and trying again. “I don't date women often, either. I'm not a big dater." Even as he says it, Tommy realizes how it must sound. He wants to kick himself as that look on Tom’s face settles and deepens. Tommy’s fingers itch to touch, to soothe, and he doesn’t see a reason to hold back. He reaches out and brushes Tom’s still damp bangs out of his eyes.

"But I meant what I said. If you want to date, I'm down to try."

Touching Tom makes Tommy remember what happened earlier, and he sits up, impulsively tugging the blankets down. If they’re going to have some sort of serious conversation, Tommy would rather have it naked, than both of them hidden under the covers.

"You date guys often?" He asks, ignoring the way Tom immediately hunches in as the blanket lowers. Despite the tension in Tom’s shoulders, he doesn’t protest, and Tommy continues tugging the bed spread down, looking over each newly revealed inch of skin with open appreciation, until Tom relaxes.

“Well. No. Not since college,” Tom starts to say, his words tripping out the way Tommy’s noticed they do when Tom’s not exactly pleased by his own answers. “And, uh. That wasn't really dating."

The implication there is clear, and Tommy smirks, propping his head up on one hand. "You minor in college dick? You join a fraternity and fuck everyone during hazing?" He asks, teasing. There’s a grin on his face as he runs a hand down Tom's chest and waggles his eyebrows a little. It does the trick. Tom's mouth drops open, and he slaps a hand over his eyes. Tommy barks out a surprised laugh, resting his chin on Tom’s sternum and watching the red flush on his cheeks starts spreading, creeping up to his hairline and down his neck. Despite his teasing, Tommy is flattered. He’s never been an exception to anyone’s rule before. Maybe it’s a stupid thing to feel proud about, but that doesn’t stop him.

Tom is still hiding under his own hand. As fun as it is to watch him squirm, Tommy only lets it go on for another beat or two before he has mercy. “So, you wanna do this thing, then?”

With a shake of his head, Tom lets the hand drop and squints up at Tommy. "How can you talk like this all the time, seriously?" he mumbles, even as a half-smile twitches across his mouth.

The smile doesn’t last for long.

"Look," Tom says, licking his lips nervously, Tommy’s gut twisting in a sympathetic response. "I do… want to. But I sort of got out of a relationship a little over a month ago. Close to two, but—still. I may have mentioned you, to some friends of mine. And they think you're a..." Tom waves a hand, cuts himself off and then finishes with: "They think I might be acting... impulsively."

And no, Tommy is going to nip that shit right in the bud. He rolls over onto Tom suddenly, pinning him down with his bulk. "That's alright," he says firmly, not wanting Tom to read anything in his tone that might reflect his friends’ uncertainty, “because I’ve thought long and hard about you, Hansen. You be the impulsive one, I can handle that."

The grin on Tom’s face - big enough that his dimples pop out invitingly - tells Tommy that he’s said the right thing. The feel of Tom’s cock filling with blood where it’s trapped between them, confirms it.

Tommy nudges up under Tom's chin, distracted for a moment by the line of his throat. He takes his time, kissing and licking over the skin until a hand in his hair makes him look up. The smile on Tom’s face has gone from delighted to pleased-but-awkward. He draws Tommy in for a kiss, and Tommy rocks down, his breath picking up as they grind against one another.

“So—” Tom murmurs against Tommy’s lips, breaking off as Tommy nips at his bottom lip. Tommy slips his tongue briefly into Tom’s mouth before letting up enough for him to finish his thought. “Did—do you want to—”

Tom's hesitant question makes Tommy pull back completely, one eyebrow raised. He thinks he knows what Tom is after - hard not to, the way things have been going. But something about that blush, about the reluctance written in Tom's body language makes Tommy want to tease him, just a little.

"Do I want to what?" Tommy asks innocently, giving a measured push forward, just enough to drag their skin together, before moving back a little. When Tom doesn't answer immediately, Tommy smiles. "Come on, man. You can say it. I like hearing you say shit like that."

Tom huffs out a laugh and lifts his hips again. Tommy, still caught up in his tease, moves away, wanting to make him work for it. Tom doesn’t disappoint, persisting until he’s rolling his hips firmly against Tommy’s.

The pleasure is enough that they both go silent for a little while, nothing but shared pants and slick skin between them as they rock together.

The distraction does the trick. The next time Tom speaks, the words tumble out of him without any of the usual hesitation.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Tom gasps out, his head pressing back into the pillow as the rest of his body arches up. “I want— I want you to. God, I want you to.”

Tommy may like to tease, but he isn't cruel. A low, wanting sound escapes him as he ducks down to press his mouth to Tom's, tongue sliding lewdly inside, like it can root out all the sounds and tastes and secrets Tom is keeping inside. He can't get enough and the kiss quickly turns desperate, Tommy's hips grinding down almost without his permission.

He pulls back after a minute or two, breathing heavily, hands bracketing Tom's head as he looks down at him. Tom looks, _Jesus_ , like temptation wrapped in a bow and laid down in front of him. He's slightly flushed, wet mouthed, and his pupils are blown. Tommy couldn't resist him if he tried.

"Fuck yes. Want that. Wanna fuck you, Hansen," Tommy says in an undertone, leaning close so Tom can hear him. He keeps grinding as he talks - babbles, really - his hips moving in slow undulations, each of Tom’s groans spurring him on, making him want to force out another, and another. He finally has to pulls back. As nice as riding Tom’s hip until they both come would be, he wants more.

Tommy leans over, twisting his upper body so he can pull and yank at the bottle lodged between the mattress and the boxspring. It’s hard to keep focused with Tom running his mouth along Tommy’s neck and down his shoulder, but Tommy finally yanks it out, grunting triumphantly.

When he turns around, Tom is staring.

“Seriously?” Tom says, the mindless need he was throwing at Tommy - only moments before - now seemingly forgotten. He leans past Tommy to look around, brow furrowing. Tommy looks around too, confused by the sudden shift in attitude.

Tom’s still hard, even if he is blinking owlishly at Tommy and looking at him like he’s some new sort of creature.  Tommy is about to ask what the hell has crawled up his ass (because it sure as fuck isn’t Tommy’s cock, for all Tommy would love to get to that part), but Tom cuts him off, raising his eyebrows and saying disbelievingly, “You keep your lube under your mattress?”

That’s not at all what Tommy had expected. He looks at the lube, and then back at Tom. “Yeah?” He says slowly. He doesn’t really have much of an explanation beyond that. If anything, he'd been worried Tom would question why the bottle was half empty, because there isn't really a good way to say 'I jerk off a lot', and no little white lie Tommy could think of would sound any better.

“It’s where I’ve always kept it,” Tommy continues, tapping the hard plastic of the bottle, smirking. “You wanna discuss where I stash my shit? Or you wanna do something else?” His voice is teasing, and he matches his words with his actions, pressing Tom back against the pillows and reaching down, stroking his thumb back and forth right behind Tom’s balls.

He can’t keep his lips to himself any better than his hands, trailing his tongue down Tom’s neck, stopping to leave open mouthed kisses and light scrapes of his teeth along the way. He stops himself, just barely, from sucking hard on the side of Tom’s neck. His instinct is to mark. He wants Tom to leave the apartment tomorrow with the evidence of what happened stamped on his skin. Even half dizzy with lust, though, Tommy knows that’s not the shit you do without asking. He makes a note to double-check for next time.

Tom arches into the touch, then suddenly freezes and lowers back to the bed. There’s a light touch, once again hesitant and fumbling, on the hand that Tommy has wrapped around the lube bottle.

“If you want, I could...?” Tom says, before his words sputter and die out, leaving the rest unsaid. It’s not hard to fill in the blanks.

Tommy wraps his free hand around Tom’s wrist lightly, stopping his movements and redirecting him in for another kiss. He pulls away after a long moment, both impatient to move on and reluctant to do so at the same time. Tom makes Tommy want to rush and linger, and the weird push-pull of arousal thrums delightfully through him.

“Nah. Nah, I wanna do that part,” Tommy says thickly, the words like a physical weight on his tongue. He pauses, pushing past the lust to add a caveat, “Unless you don’t—” he starts, but Tom finishes the thought with a quick shake of his head. Tommy grins.

The cap of the lube comes off with a click, overly loud in the quiet room, but Tommy isn’t paying attention to anything except getting his fingers slick. Once they are, he pulls lightly on Tom’s left leg, urging them apart. His hand slides down from Tom’s calf to his ankle, running his wet thumb over the curve and down to the heel, leaving a shiny, slick stripe behind.

“You change your mind, tell me. We can do this another time,” Tommy says as his hand moves up again, and in, past Tom’s knees, not stopping until his fingers are curving around the swell of Tom’s ass, resting just centimeters from where Tommy wants to touch and stretch and slide inside.

Tom shakes his head. He looks almost numb from lust, and Tommy can relate. The thought of putting this off for another time is hard to swallow, and Tom’s immediate dismissal of Tommy’s offer fills him with a confusing mix of gratitude and urgent arousal. Tom must think he doesn’t quite get the message, though, because he pushes back against Tommy’s fingers. “I’m not getting cold feet,” he says, the rasp in his voice incredibly distracting. “Just—uh, could you go slow? It's... you know. It’s kind of been a while.”

“Slow. I can do slow,” Tommy says, even though it’s not his usual. In fact, thinking back, Tommy can’t remember a time when he’s ever really lingered in bed. Before the Marines he didn’t have the patience (or the stamina) and during his tours he and whoever he was getting off with were too paranoid to be anything but quick and economical. After the Marines, well. Tommy wasn’t really in any state of mind for kindness or pleasure.

He wants to make up for every missed opportunity.

Tommy crawls forward, bumping Tom’s legs even further apart with his wide shoulders. “You down for a little turnabout before we get going?” He asks, but there’s no need to wait for an answer. The hard cock in front of his face, and the way Tom’s eyes fix on his mouth is yes enough.

This isn’t new, sliding his mouth around a cock. Being on a bed, though, having Tom spread out underneath him instead of being cramped in a bathroom stall or crouched behind some garbage cans in an alley, well. Tommy could get used to this.

Tom’s glans is already dark red and wet; it’s obvious from the tremble in his thighs and the way his cock is curving toward his belly, that he’s perched on the edge. Tommy doesn’t give a shit - he wants to suck him. He follows each drip of precum with his tongue, not bothering to hide how much he wants it, how much he likes it, because he does. Tommy fucking loves it. It’d be so easy to get lost in this, to take Tom deep, work him wet and filthy until Tom spilled down his throat. But that’s not the objective here, and even with Tom leaking in his mouth, Tommy isn’t losing sight of what they’re both after.

The sound of Tom’s breathing is already uneven and harsh, but it goes balls to the wall when Tommy starts working a slick finger between his cheeks, brushing just the tip of it against his hole. It’s a tease, and overly cruel considering that Tommy is still mouthing his dick, but Tom had asked for slow. Tommy is more than happy to oblige.

“Okay,” Tom laughs, squirming against the bedspread as Tommy keeps teasing him with small circles around his rim, “I know I said slow, but this is glacial. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just- this might be over before it begins if you don’t—”

Tom’s words end in a startled gasp as Tommy slides his index finger smoothly inside of him.

Tom hadn’t been lying; he’s _tight_ , the ring of muscle around Tommy’s finger clenching even as Tommy turns his hand slowly back and forth. He pulls back, lifting his mouth off of Tom’s cock, and reaches for the bottle again. Even though his hands are shaking - small little twitches running through his fingers like electricity - Tommy manages to get another line of lube poured along the bottom of his finger in seconds flat. Working back inside of Tom takes longer. Tommy circles and strokes, moving his finger in repetitive circles, not stopping until Tom is as wet and slippery as Tommy can make him.

“It’s been a long time for me, too,” Tommy murmurs, eyes fixed on the sight of Tom squeezed down around him, on the glint of lube on skin. He doesn’t know why he says it, doubts it’s particularly comforting to find out that the guy who is about to fuck you is out of practice, but it feels right, telling him.  

Tom is reasonably still underneath him, breathing slowly as he adjusts and relaxes around Tommy in tiny increments. When Tommy looks up to check that everything is okay, he finds Tom smiling down at him. He can’t help but return it, can’t resist Tom’s hand pulling him up for a kiss while he rocks down onto Tommy’s finger at the same time.

Soon, Tom’s loose enough for another finger. Tommy goes slower, this time, even as his dick throbs in time with his heartbeat, Tom’s lips and tongue distracting him in the worst way. He has to pull back, eventually, urged on by Tom’s nodding assurance, and the _yes, fuck, try another_ gasped into the nearly nonexistent space between their mouths.

By the time Tommy is able to get three fingers inside of Tom and thrust them, slick and smoothly enough to be good, to have Tom arching up and meeting each push, he’s beyond ready. The small twitches from early are full-on tremors now, and Tommy has to grip Tom’s hips hard to feel like he’s even remotely on steady ground.

Tom doesn’t comment when Tommy pulls a string of condoms out from under the mattress, just shifts back and spreads his legs further apart. Tommy takes that as the invitation it is and fumbles with the condom, his frustration growing until he finally wipes his lube slick fingers off on the blanket and tears the little packet open with teeth.

Slicking the condom on helps, the desensitization of the latex giving him some breathing room. It’s a lucky thing, too, because one look at Tom, laid out, cock hard and dripping against his belly, pushes Tommy right back up to the razor’s edge.

“You look fucking good, Hansen,” Tommy says, cock twitching with just how much of an understatement that is. He moves closer, until he’s between Tom’s legs, the head of his cock rubbing over his hole. He’d used a lot of lube, in the end, and the latex barely catches on the rim of him before slipping off and down in teasing strokes that satisfy neither of them.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Tom rasps, lifting his hips. They both groan when Tommy’s cock slides off point again, Tom’s head dropping back against the pillows. “You’re gonna have to…” Tom says, but trails off.

“Yeah, yeah, gotta—” Tommy doesn’t bother finishing his thought, just grips himself harder with one hand, and pushes. It takes a couple tries - Tommy ends up having to guide the head of his cock inside with the tip of his thumb, but finally he’s inside.

He closes his eyes and just savors the moment.

Then, Tom’s legs are squeezing him, hiked up around Tommy’s hips and urging him forward. “God, no. You can’t fucking stop _now_ ,” he whines, and Tommy doesn’t have anything even close to the resolve to resist that.

It’s hard to remember to take it slow with Tom’s body greedily taking him in. Tommy manages, but just barely, driving inside in small, controlled thrusts, each one forcing him deeper inside of Tom. He’s glad for it, too, when he opens his eyes and looks down at Tom, his expression screwed up into a mix of discomfort and blind lust.

He stops for a moment, but Tom immediately shakes his head. “No, I’m good, it’s good. Just—keep going like that.” He rolls his hips, like he’s worried words alone won’t be convincing enough, and Tommy slides that last inch inside of him.

The swear that slips out of him at that, well. Kinda shit that’s not fit for any company, good or bad.

Things get a little hazy, then, Tommy’s hips working on instinct, thrusting into the sweet, slick clench of Tom’s ass. Tom keeps pulling him in, muttering nonsense each time Tommy bottoms out. The pinched look on his face evens out after a few minutes, bunched lines between his eyebrows smoothing as his mouth opens around a gasp. Tommy pushes in again, chasing the strangled, startled noise that means he’s hit his target.

Tommy wants this to be good, wants Tom to wake up tomorrow with an itch for more. He keeps hammering at Tom’s prostate, little rabbit punches of his glans against the knot of tissue, until Tom’s overlapping moans sound like an unbroken, constant keening. With the hand not currently keeping him up, he reaches for Tom’s cock.

The way Tom bucks and all but _shouts,_ Tommy would’ve thought he’d electrocuted him. He starts shaking his head, _writhing_ underneath Tommy like he just can’t bear to be still. “Can’t,” Tom gasps. “Can’t— gonna—”

“Do it,” Tommy says, following it up with a pointed, brutal thrust. “Go on, wanna feel you, wanna fucking see.” He keeps his hand moving, the precome leaking out of Tom’s cock making his strokes slick and easy. It only takes a flick of his wrist, his thumb rubbing right over Tom’s circumcision scar, to get him there.

If Tommy thought Tom was tight before, it’s nothing compared to the fist-like grip that Tom’s orgasm brings on. Tommy bucks mindlessly into it, letting go of Tom’s still twitching cock to grab him by the hips, smearing come against Tom’s skin.

The end is a desperate, rushed flurry of motion, the only thing on Tommy’s mind is trying to cram as much of his cock inside Tom as possible. He must push up against Tom’s prostate again, because there’s a hard shudder and Tom spasms around him. It wrenches a deep, almost pained groan out of Tommy, and he grinds his hips in jerky circles, panting as he comes into the condom.

Time slows, Tommy’s brain quiets, and it’s a long moment before everything evens out again. He comes back to himself slouched on top of Tom, breathing against his neck. He’s already almost completely soft inside of him, and he reaches down to grip the base of the condom. No need to ruin a fantastic fuck by having to fish a lost rubber out of Tom’s ass.

Tommy staggers to his feet, walking just far enough to lob the condom into the toilet. He collapses back onto the bed when he hears it hit the water with a satisfying _plop_. “Jesus. Fuck,” he laughs, still a little breathless, glancing over to find Tom grinning back at him.

“Mm. Yeah. That,” Tom says, rolling onto his side and going for a kiss. His aim is a little off and he ends up with his lips pressed against Tommy’s cheek. “My thoughts exactly.”

The post-sex clumsiness makes Tommy laugh again. He yanks Tom closer, still dopey, but nonetheless pleased. “Yeah. I like doing that. ‘s nice.”

“Good to know, because I’d like to keep doing that,” Tom answers. He pauses for a second before adding, “Not right now, obviously. The mind is willing, but the flesh is—”

“Limp and soggy?” Tommy finishes, and feels a surge of triumph when Tom laughs.

“Something like that.”

Tommy snorts and wraps an arm around Tom’s hips, not wanting him to go anywhere just yet. It dawns on Tommy then, how slight Tom is, compared to him. Not that he hasn’t noticed before - Tommy’s made an art out of studying Tom’s physique. But pushing, pulling, and practically dragging Tom around the bed only moments before, drives the reality home.

“You’re not like the other guys I’ve been with before.” Tommy doesn’t mean to say it, not really, but apparently his body isn’t the only thing that’s gripped with a lazy looseness.

“Oh yeah?” Tom asks, brushing Tommy’s fringe out of his eyes.

“Yeah. You’re—small. I can move you around.” Tommy punctuates his words by pulling Tom a little closer. “Guys I’m used to...big, you know? Muscles and shit everywhere. You push, they push back. I like that I can move you around.”

Tommy tilts his head, going in for a kiss, but surprisingly, Tom leans away.

“....you like that I’m weak?” He asks, and Tommy blinks, taken aback.

“Uh.” Tommy quickly thinks back over what he’s said, talking as he tries to figure out what the fuck he said wrong. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, I like that you’re, uh. Not all big.”

That makes the last little ghost of Tom’s smile disappear completely. “Right. Okay.”

 _Jesus Fucking Christ, Riordan._ Tommy think despairingly. _Get your ass in gear._

“No, shit. I—that came out wrong. I was trying to give you a compliment.” Tommy can’t keep the rueful smile off of his face anymore than he can stop the slow, frustrated sigh. “Pretty shit showing so far, huh?”

Tom softens, the defensive, tense line of his shoulders easing slightly. “Kind of,” he admits, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “For a guy who spends a lot of time at the gym, you’ve got a weird idea of how to compliment another guy.” He’s smiling as he says it, and Tommy can hear the tease in his voice instead of the annoyance Tommy had expected.

“Fuck,” Tommy laughs, ending on a groan. “I’m not so good with people skills." He jostles Tom lightly, glad the light mood is back. “You gotta teach me some shit.” Tom wriggles closer at that, and Tommy tightens his arm around him.

“I can be pretty shit at people, too,” Tom says softly, nose nuzzling right under Tommy’s jaw. “We can stumble along together. It’ll be a learning experience. Or something.”

A pleased, hopeful warmth blooms deep in Tommy’s chest. He grins back.

“I’m all about the learning experiences,” Tommy mutters, and leans in for another kiss.

It’s a while before either of them come up for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more Pound for Pound to come, but if you just can't wait for the next chapter, there are loads of drabbles and one shots listed [here](http://smugrobotics.tumblr.com/poundforpound) and [here](http://sibilantly.tumblr.com/pound-for-pound-not-to-scale-master-list)!


	6. Level Change

It’s a shrill, piping sound that jolts Tom out of sleep.

Disoriented, he flails around a little, trying to locate the source of the noise. When he reaches out toward his bedside table, however, his hand encounters nothing but air. Tom gropes blindly for a few more seconds, before common sense finally penetrates the fog: that noise is an alarm, and the reason he can’t find his bedside table is because he isn’t at home. He’s at Tommy’s apartment, in Tommy’s bed.

The mattress dips and rises as Tommy rolls over, away from Tom. There’s a clatter, a muttered curse, and then a click, followed by blessed silence. A few seconds later, the mattress bounces again as Tommy rolls back over. He hooks an arm around Tom’s waist, drags him in close; gropes him a little, too, hands warm against Tom’s hips, against the skin of his thighs, and Tom isn’t so sleep-dazed that he can’t appreciate it. However, his limbs don’t seem particularly inclined to get with the program. Tommy’s cock is pressed against the small of his back, blood-warm and hard, but Tom only manages a sleepy, uncoordinated wriggle before a jaw-cracking yawn overtakes him.

Tommy laughs quietly against Tom’s shoulder. “Good morning,” he says, his voice a warm burr.

Tom forces his eyes open a little further and glances around. Tommy’s bedroom is awash in pre-dawn grey, and it’s incredibly quiet outside - at least, it’s incredibly quiet by LA standards.

“What time is it?” Tom mumbles.

“Four-thirty,” Tommy replies. He nuzzles the nape of Tom’s neck gently.

Tom’s eyes snap open. “ _Four-thirty?_ ” he says, disbelieving. “As in AM? Did you set your alarm wrong or something?”

“Nope,” Tommy says, sounding far too cheerful and alert. “A body this good doesn’t just get handed to you.” He punctuates his words with a slow, gratifying roll of his hips. “I’m gonna go for a run now. Don’t take off before I get back, okay?”

Tom snuggles down against the pillows and closes his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, already drifting off. “It’s four-thirty. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

There’s an amused snort from Tommy. “Good,” he says.

 

\--

 

The cafe is surprisingly crowded and noisy for six o’clock in the morning, even if it is a Saturday.

Tom sits in an overstuffed armchair, trying not to fidget as Autumn leafs through a hardcover copy of _The Architecture of Happiness_ , her pretty features pinched into a frown. He hasn’t seen her since the day she’d picked up her stuff from his apartment.

Eventually, Autumn closes the book and says, “I don’t think it’s in here.”

“Yeah it is,” Tom says. He reaches for the book, but Autumn drops it over the side of her chair. Tom gives her a disapproving look.

Autumn ignores it, saying, “I think it’s in Le Corbusier’s _Vers une architecture_ , actually. Can you go get it?”

Tom gets up and walks around the cafe counter, to the back room, and up the flight of stairs that leads to the library. There’s the rapid tapping of high heeled shoes behind him, and then Autumn grabs his arm, saying, “What are you doing?”

Tom pauses halfway up the stairs. He looks back at her, confused. “What? You told me to go get _Vers une architecture_.”

“Yeah, but that’s the children’s section,” Autumn says. She sighs. “You need to pay closer attention to things.”

“No,” Tom says, “it’s the architecture section.” He turns back. But, sure enough, beyond the edge of the stairs, he can see the low wooden shelves and stuffed toys of LA Central Library’s children’s section. He pulls back, surprised.

“Hey,” Autumn says, in Tommy’s voice. “Wake up.”

Tom snaps awake. He blinks up at the ceiling of- right. Tommy’s bedroom.

The room is brighter now, warm sunlight filtering in past the curtains. Tommy himself is draped over Tom, smelling like clean soap and mint toothpaste, looking jerk-off fantasy hot with his damp hair and easy smile. Except Tommy definitely _isn’t_ a jerk-off fantasy, because never, in any of Tom’s fantasies, has Tom smelled like sweat and morning breath, been sporting a serious case of bedhead, or had the remains of dried come flaking off his hip.

“Um,” Tom says. “Good morning?”

Tommy’s smile widens into a grin. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” He pulls back, giving Tom room to sit up, and adds, “I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I gotta head to the gym. You want breakfast? I make a pretty mean egg white omelette.”

Breakfast sounds excellent. And an omelette sounds even better. But- “What time is it now?”

“Quarter to six.”

 _Oh God._ “Is there coffee?” Tom asks, scrubbing at his face. Jesus, his mouth tastes like crap. For the first time since- well, _ever_ , he finds himself hoping Tommy doesn’t kiss him.

“There can be,” Tommy says. He drags Tom effortlessly to the side of the bed. “You’ll have to get up now, though.” To Tom’s simultaneous relief and disappointment, Tommy climbs off the bed without moving in for a kiss.

Tom sits up. “Can I use your shower?”

“Sure,” Tommy says. “Come out to the kitchen when you’re done.”

Tom nods, crawls out of bed, and staggers off to the bathroom.

He showers quickly, not wanting to be rude, and opts to brush his teeth with a finger and some toothpaste rather than use Tommy's toothbrush. However, after a minute of searching yields no other towels, Tom has no choice but to dry himself off using Tommy’s already damp towel. He deliberates briefly over using Tommy’s shaver, too, before deciding against it. He doesn’t have _that_ much stubble, and someone - possibly Mac - had once told him it was weird to spend more than fifteen minutes in another person’s bathroom, the morning after. By Tom’s estimate, he’s already been in here for ten minutes.

When he wanders back into the bedroom, he finds his clothes slung over the back of a chair. They’re wrinkled from having spent the night puddled on Tommy’s living room floor, but Tom appreciates the gesture anyway. At least Tommy had spared him the indignity of having to hunt for them whilst wearing only a borrowed towel.

Tom pulls the clothes on quickly, then makes his way to the kitchen, following the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing. He finds Tommy leaning against the counter, drumming his fingers against the countertop as he watches the coffee maker. Judging by the smell, the coffee is almost ready, but Tom dithers in the threshold, uncertain.

It's been a long time since he was on this side of things. He’s used to playing the host, or at least used to playing host for the first few weeks of a new relationship. His morning-after guest etiquette is so rusty it has holes in it. Should he just walk up to Tommy and kiss him? Hug him? Is that too... relationship-like at this point? But he shouldn’t just stand around and wait for Tommy to make a move, right? Before he can come to a decision, however, Tommy glances up and spots him.

“Feeling a little more awake?” Tommy asks, smiling.

“As awake as I can be after getting up at quarter to six,” Tom replies. He leans against the doorjamb because it seems less awkward than just... standing there.

“What time do you usually get up?”

“If it’s a weekday? Six-thirty or seven. If it’s the weekend? I don’t get up before noon, if I can help it.”

Tommy smirks. “Spoiled, huh?”

“Spoiled?” Tom says incredulously, smiling. “It’s _Saturday_. Jesus, who gets up at four-thirty in the morning on a Saturday?” He pushes off from the doorjamb and walks over to Tommy, trying to ignore the jittery feeling starting up in the pit of his stomach; hesitates for only a fraction of a second before wrapping an arm around Tommy’s waist.

To his satisfaction (and relief), Tommy leans into the hug immediately. He takes a mug from an overhead cabinet, grabs the coffee carafe, and pours the coffee, all without pulling away from Tom. “I don’t have any sugar,” Tommy says apologetically, handing the mug over, “but there’s milk in the fridge.”

 _It’s fine,_ Tom starts to say, but the words die in his throat when Tommy pulls open a drawer and fishes out a teaspoon. Or, rather, fishes out _the_ teaspoon.

Tom blinks.

He puts his free hand over Tommy’s, stopping him from closing the drawer, then tugs the drawer out further. Stares down at the one spoon, one fork, and one knife sitting in Tommy’s cutlery drawer. “...You only have one of everything.”

“Uh, yeah?” Tommy says, like he has no idea why Tom thinks this is worthy of comment.

Tom’s brow furrows. He glances around the kitchen; peers at the parts of the living room he can see beyond the kitchen divider, and takes in what he’d been too distracted to notice yesterday.

Tommy’s style of decorating is... sparse. Spartan. Tom can see a few framed photos sitting on top of the TV, and one of those boxing mannequin... things in a corner of the living room, but that’s _it_. The walls are bare. No pictures, no posters. Hell- Tommy doesn’t even have _shelves_. Tom’s been in model homes with more interior decorating than Tommy’s apartment.

Acting on a hunch, Tom reaches up and opens another overhead cabinet at random. Sure enough, he finds only one plate and one glass. He glances sidelong at Tommy. “You don’t have people over much, huh?”

Tommy taps the teaspoon against the countertop. “Not really,” he says. “My schedule’s pretty packed. And I haven't been here long.”

“Right,” Tom says slowly. Hadn’t Tommy told him he’d moved to LA at the start of the year? It’s been months. More than enough time to start meeting people.

Tommy shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny, and Tom gives him a hurried reassuring squeeze around his waist. _Don’t make this awkward,_ he tells himself. So what if Tommy doesn’t socialise much? Not everyone likes socialising. “I need to take you to Ikea,” Tom teases gently, smiling.

“That like Target?” Tommy asks. He pulls away, heading for the fridge.

Tom blinks. “What? No.” Tommy really hasn’t heard of Ikea? “Well, I guess you could say it’s like Target, if all Target sold was furniture and homeware stuff.” He follows Tommy and hugs him from behind, tucking his chin over Tommy's shoulder. “Come with me to Ikea tomorrow,” Tom says, deliberately chipper. “You're not training again, are you?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Active recovery day,” he says, stirring milk into the coffee, “so it’ll just be light shit. I’ll be done by one or two in the afternoon. That okay?” He holds the mug out to Tom.

Tom accepts the coffee with raised eyebrows. “I thought recovery day meant... recovering,” he says, mentally revising his estimate of how much time Tommy spends training.

“Yeah, but sitting on your ass doesn’t help much with anything,” Tommy says. “Active recovery keeps me loose for the following week. Plus, I don’t really like-” he fidgets a little, “-doing nothing.”

Tom tilts his head at the odd pause, then shrugs it off. _Don’t make it awkward, don't make it awkward._ “You could fill your time up with things other than training, you know,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee then grins at Tommy, caught somewhere between lighthearted and suggestive.

Tommy grins back. “Yeah, well, between training and checking out the new guy at the gym, my schedule’s been pretty fucking full.”

“Hey, if it were up to me, your schedule would be _a lot_ fuller than that.”

That makes Tommy grin wider, and the excited, nervous jittering in the pit of Tom’s stomach grows. And then it dies abruptly when Tommy’s grin vanishes.

“So,” Tommy says, leaning back against the counter, “since we’re doing this and all, you ought to know my work… it takes up a shitload of my time. I’m pretty much at the gym all week. Training starts at six-thirty, can go as late as six in the evening, depending on how the breakdown of the day goes.” He gives Tom a somewhat apologetic look.

“Oh,” Tom says, blinking. “Wow. That’s, uh… intense.” He looks down at his coffee, turning the mug around in his hands a few times. “My hours can be pretty weird, too. Not as regular as yours, but the stereotypes about architects and long hours are true. I work past seven, sometimes. Or, um... nine.” He refrains from mentioning the semi-regular all-nighters, because no one finds workaholism attractive, right? He gives Tommy a small smile. “This’ll be... interesting, scheduling-wise.”

Tommy smiles back. “Guess that's why texting and phone calls were invented, right?” He plucks the mug from Tom’s hands, places it on the counter, and leans in close. “So, we can have breakfast now,” he says, “or... we could make out and you can grab a donut or something later?”

Tom traces his fingers over Tommy’s cheekbones, rubs his thumb against Tommy’s full lower lip; hopes the expression on his face doesn’t look too awestruck. “Second option,” he says quickly. “The second option is good.”

By the time they pull apart, the coffee has long since grown cold.

 

\--

 

 

\--

 

It’s late Saturday morning (still far earlier than Tom usually gets up on a Saturday) when Tom pushes open the door to Frank’s gym. He’s greeted by the now familiar sound of gloved fists thumping against vinyl, the lighter staccato patter of speed bags being pummeled, and the sharp bark of Frank's voice calling out instructions and praise.

Tommy is in the ring, as usual, in the midst of a spar. He’s training in the run-up to a fight - less than a month away now - and it’s been days since Tom’s last seen him. They’ve since transitioned to texting and calling almost daily, but text messages and phone calls are still a poor substitute for actually _seeing_ Tommy, so when Tom spots a free bag, only a few feet away from the ring, he immediately makes a beeline for it. He’s almost there when Frank appears suddenly in his path, arms crossed and brows furrowed in a fierce frown.

Tom comes to a stop, blinking. “Uh. Hi, Frank?”

Frank gives him a disgruntled look. “Listen, Hansen,” he says slowly, “I know you and Tommy have this... thing going on, and I’m real happy for the pair of you-” _Are you really?_ Tom wonders, taking in Frank’s frown, “-but Tommy doesn’t have long ‘til his next fight, and the last thing he needs during training is distractions. You get me?”

“I’m not going to distract him,” Tom says, offended. He’s always waited until it was time for Tommy’s break, even before they’d started dating. And it’s not like Tom had joined the gym to meet men or something.

Frank stares him down, skeptical.

“I’m not!”

“Sure, whatever,” Frank says. “Look- I don’t give a damn what you two get up to in Tommy’s downtime. Actually, I’d be a lot happier if I don’t know what you two get up to. But right now, Tommy’s on the clock, which means he’s my fighter first, your boyfriend second, so if you’re gonna hang around, make sure you keep out of the way.”

 _Wow, that’s incredibly possessive of you,_ Tom almost says, except his brain circles back and winds up stuck on the word- “Boyfriend?”

Tommy actually said ‘boyfriend’? He told Frank that Tom was his boyfriend?

Tom suspects he may be grinning. No, actually, he’s quite sure he’s grinning, and it probably looks borderline crazy.

Frank eyes him like he thinks Tom is several eggs short of a dozen. He jabs a finger at Tom. “Remember: he’s on the clock right now,” he says, ominous, then stomps back to the ring to continue monitoring Tommy’s sparring match.

Tom follows him, paying his warning no mind. He’d come to the gym with the intent of practicing boxing a little more (really, he had - he’s in workout clothes and everything), but Frank’s comment has derailed that completely. Honestly, Tom thinks, Frank has no one but himself to blame for Tom taking up position at the side of the ring, beaming at Tommy so hard his cheeks hurt.

Tommy doesn’t turn to look at him - he never does when he’s in the middle of a spar - but there’s a shift in his posture that indicates he knows Tom is there, and Tom doesn't think it’s all in his imagination when Tommy’s footwork gets a little fancier. He knows he _definitely_ isn’t imagining it when Tommy goes for a more complicated takedown than usual - something akin to a Kimura lock, but using his leg rather than his arms. Tom makes a mental note to ask Tommy what that move was later.

(Tom’s very interested in MMA these days.)

His suspicion is confirmed when Frank says, “That’s it, _perfect,_ ” then follows it up with an aggrieved, “but quit fucking showboating, Riordan.”

Tom grins wider.

Tommy pops to his feet the second his opponent taps out and graciously gives the other man a hand up. Then he wanders over to Tom and sits down at the edge of the ring, draping himself over the lowest set of ropes. “You look happy,” he says, eyebrow raised.

“Yup,” Tom says cheerfully, climbing up onto the edge of the ring to sit beside him. Tommy immediately hooks a foot around the back of Tom’s calf, smiling.

“What’s got you so happy?” Tommy asks.

Frank heaves a long suffering sigh. “I’m going to lunch,” he says, and walks off before either of them can reply.

Tom watches him go then glances sidelong at Tommy. “So...” he says slightly shy, “you told Frank about us, huh?”

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly. “Frank kinda worked it out on his own. I just filled in the blanks.”

“He, uh.... called me your boyfriend.” Tom tries to school his expression into the same sort of nonchalance. “Those your words or his?”

Tommy tilts his head. “I never said ‘boyfriend’,” he says, smiling, “but I’m definitely not complaining.” He hooks his other foot around Tom’s calf, too, trapping his leg firmly.

Tom beams at him again, bright and delighted, then looks around. No one in the gym is giving them a second glance, although a few guys are staring a little _too_ hard at their boxing bags. Still, no one seems outright disapproving, so Tom ducks in and gives Tommy a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I like the sound of that.”

Tommy’s grin turns slightly bashful. “You, uh. You wanna train a little?”

“Sure,” Tom says, “as long as you don’t mind my painfully slow progress.”

“I was thinking we could do something a little different.”

“Something new like what?” Tom asks, curious.

“You wanna get out of here, go for a run?”

Running? Tom can do running. He can run a hell of a lot better than he can box, that’s for sure, but- “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up with you.”

“I’ll slow it down for you,” Tommy says with a smirk.

Tom snorts. “Very generous of you.” He disentangles his leg from Tommy’s and hops off the edge of the ring; Tommy follows suit. Tom casts a wary glance toward the closed door of Frank's office. “Isn’t Frank going to give you shit for this?” He smiles wryly. “He just gave me a lecture on not distracting you.”

“Hey, I need to get my cardio in either way,” Tommy says, breezy. “The fact I get to have you come along is just frosting.” He loops an arm around Tom’s shoulders, like he has so many times before, but pulls him in close. “Let’s go.”

 

\--

 

 

\--

 

Times like these are Tommy’s favorite. They’re sitting together on his couch, Tom studying for one of his AREs and Tommy highlighting keywords in his economics textbook, feet touching and tangled in the middle. It’s comfortable. Quiet, sure, but nice in a way that Tommy never really expected from a relationship. Mostly, they talk and joke and tease each other, but the moments of companionable silence, as few and far between as they tend to be, are just as nice.

And just as easily ended.

The rustle of Tom’s pages stops suddenly and the break in rhythm is enough that Tommy looks up, catches Tom staring at his TV with a small frown. “You don’t have a lot of DVDs,” he says after a beat, and it’s Tommy’s turn to frown.

He looks over at the cabinet below the TV, the one he’d picked up at the Goodwill along with his other furniture. It’s...alright, it’s pretty bare. There are four DVDs behind the glass doors, all of them gifts from Brendan and his girls. Rocky I and II, The Descent, and Monsters INC. (the last one was picked out by Rosie and Emily, at least that’s what Brendan says). It’s not an extensive collection by any means, but Tommy had never thought it was _weird_.

He shifts, a small, tight ball of embarrassment forming in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m not all that big on movies,” Tommy says, clearing his throat beforehand to keep his voice light and loose.

Tom’s head tilts, and he gets that puzzled grin that means Tom’s about to let his curiosity off the leash. “What do you do when you get bored?” He asks after a second, reaching down to stroke his thumb over the ball of Tommy’s ankle.

Tommy nudges Tom’s hand with his foot, smirking at him. “Talk to your ass. Or Frank. Or, other people.” It’s mostly true, though ‘other people’ usually means Brendan, or the girls, or his shrink. Tommy’s social circle isn’t all that wide.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular social butterfly?” Tom says with a grin that makes Tommy lean up, drop his notes on the ground, and close the distance between them. He flops down on top of Tom, who makes a sound halfway between a grunt and laugh.

“That’s me,” Tommy says, the words spoken into the skin of Tom’s neck. “You watch a lot of movies?”

“Apparently not enough,” Tom says. “I mean, I’ve never seen Rocky. Or Rocky II.”

“How the fuck have you seen eight thousand French movies and not Rocky?” Tommy asks, revelling in the opportunity to know something that Tom doesn’t, for once.

Tom laughs and shoves at him, but not with enough conviction to be anything but futile. “Well, I don’t know how you _haven’t_ seen eight thousand French movies, big shot.”

“Because they’re _French_ ,” Tommy says, a little too distracted by the smell of Tom’s skin to put the full weight of his contempt into the words, though when another light shove comes, he knows Tom got the jist.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little subtitle reading, you know. Besides, I bet you’ve watched a lot more films directed by French directors than you realize.”

The challenge is plain enough to make Tommy pull back, flop to the side instead of on top of Tom. “Alright,” he says, “name one.”

“Fifth Element,” Tom says after a short pause and Tommy shakes his head.

“Let me guess, it’s about some kinda artist who falls in love with some chick with really short hair and a constant fucking scowl?”

Tom bursts out laughing, shaking his head in answer. “No, uh. No. It’s a sci-fi action flick. Bruce Willis is in it.”

That name, at least, rings a bell. “He was in Die Hard, right?”

Tom nods, and his lips purse, the wheels obviously turning in his head. “The Transporter?”

Tommy shrugs again, his focus more on getting his hand up underneath Tom’s shirt than the question. “What’s that one about?”

“It’s a Jason Statham movie. He plays a mercenary who delivers anything, no questions asked.”

“Mm.” Tommy hikes Tom’s shirt up a little higher, watching it go concave when he finds the ticklish spot to the side of Tom’s belly button. “I’d watch that.”

“But you’ve-,” Tom starts to say, then sucks in a breath when Tommy drags his fingernails across his skin. “You’ve never heard of it?”

Tommy’s pretty much done with the movie questions. He’s about to end the conversation with the foolproof method of mouth-on-cock, but Tom catches his hand before Tommy gets a chance.

As much as Tommy likes the guy, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand how Tom’s curiosity can beat out his hard-on on such a regular basis.

Tom obviously wants to keep talking, but that doesn’t mean Tommy has to stop his fondling. He leans down and presses his lips to Tom’s stomach. When Tom’s next question comes, there’s more than a little waver in his words. “What did you and your mom watch? You said she liked acting.”

It’s easier to talk about her these days, and Tommy’s shrink says it’ll get even better the more he does it. Still, the words cling the back of his throat, scraping at his insides as they work their way into his mouth.

“...old stuff. Disney. Wholesome shit, you know?” Tommy says, lifting his head and resting his chin on Tom’s hip. He’s a perverted motherfucker, sure, but talking about his mom while he tongue fucks his boyfriend’s belly button isn’t really a line he’s looking to cross.

Tommy glances up, and Tom is smiling down at him fondly. “Regular ‘Leave it to Beaver’ upbringing, huh?”

Just like that, any lingering arousal Tommy might have had wafting around evaporates like water on a hot sidewalk. “Something like that,” he mutters with a small shrug.

Tommy reminds himself that Tom doesn’t know the deal, has no reason not to say shit like that, that there’s no reason to get annoyed about it. It works, for the most part, and the rest he shoves down, deep inside of him, in a place where he can put it aside and deal with it later.

For now, he gets up off the couch and offers Tom a hand. “C’mon, Hansen. Let’s go rent one of your not-weird French movies.”

Tom pauses, but only slightly. Then he takes Tommy’s hand and hoists himself up. “Fifth Element first. If you don’t like that… there’s no hope at all for you.”

Tommy laughs, and if it’s a little strange, a little dark, he’s the only one who notices.

 

\--

 

 

\--

 

“See, now _that_ was a good movie,” Tommy says, as they exit the Regal and join the stream of foot traffic outside the cinema.

Tom slants a smile Tommy’s way. “You say that every time we watch an action film.”

“That’s because they _are_ good.”

Tom laughs brightly.

There’s a strong breeze kicking up, whipping at their clothes and sending Tom’s hair into disarray. The air smells clean, or at least not so much like smog and car exhaust, and the sun is just starting to set, bathing everything in liquid golden light; it highlights the bright flecks of blue and green in Tommy’s eyes, too, and Tom stutters a little when he notices, transfixed and giddy.

 _You’re twenty-seven, Hansen, not seventeen,_ he tells himself. _Get a grip._

“If we maintain this movie watching schedule,” he says, after taking a moment to gather his wits, “you might be caught up on modern cinema in... oh- half a decade?” He grins at Tommy, playful, and reaches for his hand. Leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek, too, and Tommy-

Tommy pulls away. He ducks his head and turns his face aside, then keeps walking, eyes trained on the ground.

Tom falters, his smile fading. He comes to a complete stop in the middle of sidewalk, staring at Tommy’s back, heedless of the people streaming past him.

 _What?_ he thinks. _What the hell just happened?_

Had he pissed Tommy off by teasing him? But what he’d just said was no harsher than their usual mode of interaction. Christ, Tommy had called Tom a hipster last week, pairing his words with an affectionate kiss, so it couldn’t _possibly_ be the teasing.

Tom’s less rosy memories of college rise up then, unbidden and unwelcome, and he has to force himself to breathe past the sudden rush of panic. He darts after Tommy, catching up with him in a few quick strikes.

“Tommy?” Tom takes Tommy by the elbow cautiously, forcing him to stop. “Is... everything okay?”

Tommy clears this throat. “Yeah,” he says, sounding uncomfortable, “It’s just- gotta be careful with that kinda stuff, you know? In public, I mean.”

Tom stares at him for a few seconds, uncomprehending. “Why?” He glances around. They’re almost a block away from the Regal; the post-movie watching crowd has thinned out, but there are still a few people loitering nearby. Tom lowers his voice. “I mean- I don’t understand. We made out in public a few weeks ago, didn’t we? For quite a while.”

A small smile flickers across Tommy’s face, then vanishes. “We were kinda caught up in the moment then,” he says quietly. “But we’re both thinking clear now, so…” he trails off, frowning at his feet.

“So… what?” Tom prompts, a little sharply; his anxiety tastes vinegar-sour on his tongue. “‘So don’t touch me in public?’ ‘So I’m having second thoughts?’ I thought… I thought you said you were willing to try dating if-”

“I am,” Tommy interrupts quickly, meeting Tom’s eyes at last. “I _am_ down to try, it’s just-” he lets out a frustrated breath. “It’s just sometimes people recognise me and take- pictures.”

Tom blinks. That... hadn’t been the answer he’d been dreading. “People recognise you,” he says slowly. He thinks for a moment. “Because of Sparta. And the- other media coverage.” He shuffles his feet, slightly uncomfortable at bringing up Tommy’s desertion, no matter how oblique.

Tommy nods.

“How often is sometimes?” Tom asks. He starts walking again, trying to dispel his lingering nerves.

“Depends on how close it is to a fight,” Tommy says, falling into step with him. “The closer it is, the more people tend to recognise me. It wouldn't be a problem, but-” he gestures vaguely.

“But you're not out in the UFC,” Tom finishes. “And it’s not really the most rainbow of organisations in the first place.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Which- fuck it, whatever. That doesn’t matter. It’s just, when I _do_ tell people, I wanna do it my way. Not because some picture showed up in some fucking rag.”

“Right,” Tom says, nodding somewhat automatically. “Right, yeah, that’s- um. I can understand that.” And he _does_ understand, but is he okay with it? He isn’t so sure. He’s never had to hide before, not least because he’s only ever dated women in the past. “So I shouldn’t do anything, like-?” He gestures at his face, rather than say ‘kiss you on the cheek’.

“Not... always,” Tommy says. “But we’re downtown and I’ve got a fight in two weeks.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not exactly great timing.”

“Right,” Tom says again, softly. He shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the steady stream of traffic as they walk. “I’ve never really had to hide before,” he confesses, after a few beats. But Tommy must have, he realises, in the Marines. Maybe even before the Marines. And what must that have been like?

“Not even with your frat boys?” Tommy teases gently, nudging Tom’s shoulder.

Tom smiles wanly. “Alcohol always made for a really convenient excuse, if they wanted one.”

“Well, I’m not looking for excuses,” Tommy says, abruptly solemn. “Just some time.”

Tom turns to look at him. Tommy’s answering gaze is steady. There’s no artifice, no furtiveness in his expression, and Tom finds himself relaxing slowly. “You just need time?” Tom tilts his head, thoughtful, then takes his hands out of his pockets and gives Tommy a small, tentative smile. “Okay, I can do that.”

Tommy laughs, sounding relieved and delighted in equal measure. “Well, fuck,” he says, grinning, “I didn’t even have to promise to make it worth your while. You’re easy, babyface.”

Tom blinks. “What--” he says, half-laughing. “What did you just call me?”

Tommy looks like he’s replaying the last few seconds in his head. “...babyface,” he says finally, shrugging.

“Of all the endearments you could give me, _that’s_ the one you choose?” Tom shakes his head, amused. “I guess I can live with that.” He looks down at his feet, still smiling. “But as for making it worth my while… you already are, I think.” He smiles wider when Tommy reaches out and brushes his fingers against the back of Tom’s hand, just for a second, like he can’t help himself, before pulling back.

“Good,” Tommy says softly. “That's good.”

 

\--

 

 

\--

 

The bar is already loud and half full by the time Tommy gets there, which isn’t the best start to the evening. Tommy likes bars, in theory. He snuck into a fair few in Tacoma when he was a troublemaking little shit, went to a few more with Manny whenever they were on leave at the same time. The kind of bars they chose, though, were out of the way, cheap as dirt, and quiet more often than not. The Mill is none of those things. If it weren’t for how much Tom loves the place, Tommy would probably hate it.

‘ _It could be worse,’_ Tommy tells himself as he scans the crowd for Tom. ‘ _It could be_ _karaoke_ _night.’_

Tom is in the booth kitty-corner to the bar with two other guys, one tall and blonde, the other short and dark. There’s a plank of shots slapped down in the middle of the table, and six of the twelve glasses are already empty and flipped upside down – one each in front of Tom and the blond, and four in front of the short one. Tommy guesses that makes him Mac.

“Holy shit, Tom wasn’t lying!” Is the first thing Mac says when Tommy gets close enough to be noticed. He looks genuinely surprised, all wide eyes and gaping mouth. Tommy isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Thankfully, Tom saves him the trouble by giving Mac a sharp, annoyed shove.

“Jesus, Mackenzie. Really? How about ‘nice to meet you’? Try that first.”

“But you weren’t fucking lying! Shit, I owe Paul a bunch of money.”

Tom casts a surprised, almost hurt look at his other friend. Paul just shrugs.

“Hey, I’m the one who believed you.”

“Great,” Tom mutters. There are a few beats of silence with Tommy just _standing_ there and Mac openly staring before Tom give him another shove. “Move, Mac. Let him sit down.”

Mac obediently shunts over, standing up and moving to sit next to Paul so Tommy can slide into the seat he just vacated, next to Tom. Immediately he feels Tom's hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly. Tommy covers it with his own and squeezes back.

“So!” Mac says, leaning forward with a huge grin. “What are you drinking? Let me guess, whisky? Guy like you has to be whisky.”

 _Guy like me?_ Tommy wonders briefly, but then Mac is flagging down a waiter and he has to intervene.

“Hey, no. Light beer for me. Not picky, just bring me whichever.”

The moment ‘light beer’ leaves his lips, Mac's expression goes from ‘hero worship level ten’ to ‘my dreams are slowly dying in front of me’ and then ‘surprised pain’, because Tom is kicking him under the table.

“I swear to God, Mackenzie. Rein it in.”

Before Mac gets a chance to answer back, Paul is nudging him, too. It's the kind of silent signal only found between old friends and family - the kind Tommy gave Manny, and got back from him, hundreds of times in the past. Mac rolls his eyes, but settles back and Tommy can’t help but grin.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s the training shit. No hard liquor, gotta watch my carbs, loads of crap like that.” And all at once, everything is fine again. Mac is nodding, with the type of interest only a fan can muster for a topic like carb depletion.

Mac wants to know about his training schedule, so Tommy tells him, glancing briefly at Paul to make sure he's not boring him out of his fucking mind. But Tom is rubbing his fingertips over Tommy's knee, which he guesses is probably encouragement, so he keeps going.

“That's insane,” Mac says, when Tommy has finished detailing the upper body work he does on Tuesdays and Saturdays. “I knew you had to work hard for a body like yours, but I never realized it was that hard.”

“Mac,” Tom groans, but Tommy laughs and shakes his head.

Things ease, after that. Tommy relaxes, the bar seems less loud and though Mac isn't any less weird, it's easier to roll with it with a little alcohol in his veins.

Paul is the most level headed, out of the three, it seems. When Mac runs off for more shots and stays gone for so long that Tom has to get up and go looking for him, Paul leans in and says he did a national exchange program at Carnegie Mellon for a year in undergrad. They start talking about Pittsburgh - the bars, the weather, the food, and how you can't find a good sandwich with spray cheese on it in Los Angeles.

“Have you met Rachel yet?” Paul asks, seemingly out of nowhere after Tommy finishes a long, wistful rant about marinated peppers. It takes a second for Tommy to switch over, placing the name to a school picture of a grinning, blond girl Tom had showed him not that long ago.

“Uh. Not yet,” Tommy says, and Paul nods, like he expected that.

“Don't worry,” he says, though Tommy wasn't worrying before now. “You will.”

Tommy is about to ask whether that's a good or bad thing, when Paul raises his hand and grins over his shoulder. A second later, Tom is shoving Mac back into his seat – a Mac who is now stripped down to his undershirt and carrying a half empty board of shots – then dropping down next to Tommy.

“You okay?” Tommy asks, reaching over to gently turn Tom's face to his by the chin. The irritated scowl Tom had been leveling at Mac drops away, and Tom smiles, shrugging.

“Yeah. This is normal, for me,” Tom says, and then his expression goes a little wary, a little worried. “...you okay?”

Tommy drapes an arm over Tom’s shoulder and nods. It’s weird, he’s not going to pretend that it’s not. He’s never done this before, and if he’s telling the truth, he’d have preferred to have done this anywhere else besides a bar. But this - the camaraderie, sitting around bullshitting with the guys is nice. It reminds him of leave nights during his first year in the Marines, when they’d go out to a bar and let out the stress of the previous months, trusting that everyone would keep everyone else out of too much trouble. Of course, he’d never been fucking any of those guys back then, but the atmosphere still isn’t that different.

So yeah, it’s weird, but it’s fine. It’s just fine.

 

\--

 

Later, back at Tom's place, both of them sprawled out in bed and still catching their breath, Tom's phone buzzes. He digs it out of his pocket and checks, before letting out a half snort-half groan and rubbing a hand over his face.

“What?” Tommy asks, propping himself up on his elbows and trying to see the screen.

“Nothing, just Mac.”

“How the fuck is he still conscious?”

“That is a mystery Paul and I have been trying to solve for years.”

They lay for a little while longer, Tommy tugging the covers up when the sweat cools on his body enough that he starts getting chilly. But even though he's quickly sliding toward sleep, the curiosity refuses to fade.

“What did it say?”

“Hmm?” Tom replies, sounding pretty close to passing out himself.

“The text from Mac. What'd it say?”

“Oh, God. Nothing. Just...Mac being Mac.”

Tommy laughs and rolls closer to Tom, grinning at him.

“C'mon. Nothing could be worse than when he followed me to the bathroom and nearly puked in the urinal.”

That makes Tom laugh, and he throws an arm over his face and shakes his head. With his other hand, he reaches over to the bedside table and gropes for the phone, handing it to Tommy.

The text is still on the main screen:

Tommy doesn't stop laughing for a long, long time.


	7. No Contest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some unconscious sexism expressed by the characters.

In the weeks following that meeting with Mac and Paul, Tom discovers that going out with Tommy is easier said than done.

Going _out_ out, that is.

Going out with Tommy, as in dating Tommy? That’s easy. It’s more than easy, actually - it’s _fun_. But going out, as in venturing out into the night and finding some place that they can both enjoy unequivocally? Not so easy.

It’s partly due to their schedules. Tommy trains five-and-a-half days a week, needs to be asleep by ten in evening (at the latest), and Tom’s nine-to-five is really more like a nine-to-seven. On a good day. But even when the stars and their schedules align...

Going out is still tricky.

There are only so many movies that are out, only so many restaurants they can frequent that don’t put Tommy’s diet to the test. Which means, more often than not, their only choices are hitting the streets in the hopes that they’ll stumble over something that will strike both their interests... or heading to a bar.

On the bar front, Tom’s personal favourite haunt, The Mill, is no longer an option. Not unless Tom wants to watch the discomfort flit across Tommy’s face whenever or the crowd gets too large, people get too close, or the music gets too loud.

Equally unacceptable, however: leaving the choice of bar venue up to Tommy. Tommy’s unfamiliarity with LA aside, the last bar he’d picked had been so low-key, so out of the way, and so, _so_ quiet that Tom had nearly fallen asleep on Tommy’s shoulder after two drinks.

(Tom didn't even know bars like that _existed_ in LA.)

Still, it’s not all bad. Wandering the streets means Tom gets to take Tommy on a fair number of tours, Tommy seemingly content to follow and listen as Tom geeks out over architecture.

And it’s on one of their aimless wanderings that salvation comes, in the form of—

“ _The Teetotaler,_ ” Tom says gleefully, staring up at the sign. “It’s called the Teetotaler.”

“I can see that, babyface,” Tommy says, mouth twitching in amusement. He’s already peering through the window - checking to see how many people are inside, no doubt.

Tom peers through as well. There are more than a few people inside, but it’s nothing compared to the crush that makes up The Mill’s weekend crowd. He tilts his head at the door. “You wanna go in?”

Tommy shrugs. “Why not?” He places his hand at the small of Tom’s back, a fleeting pressure, before letting it drop when Tom pushes the door open. As the door swings shut behind them, Tommy leans in, saying, “I’m gonna go piss, okay?”

Tom nods, then darts away to the bar before Tommy can try giving him cash to cover the cost of drinks.

There are close to a dozen people already waiting at the bar, so Tom parks himself at the edge of the group and settles in to wait. Not that Tom minds waiting, because it means he gets time to admire the architecture. The bar is beautiful; a carefully, lovingly preserved example of the Beaux-Arts style - all clean, neoclassical lines and Rococo embellishments, paired with plush furniture.

He has his head tilted back, in the midst of examining the ornate ceiling moulding, when he hears, right in his ear: “Hey.”

Tom looks around. Standing beside him, just a touch too close for comfort, is... a guy. He’s dark-haired and dark-eyed like Tom, but taller. And, judging by the stink of alcohol, he’s incredibly, spectacularly wasted.

“Hi,” Tom says, belatedly. He leans back a little, seeking fresh air, but it’s all in vain, because the guy just sidles closer.

“You come here often?” The guy asks, nodding around at the bar.

Tom shakes his head. “Nope. First time.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” the guy says. He smiles in a way that’s probably intended to be disarming. “I think I’d remember if you’d been here before.”

Tom blinks, bemused. He hasn’t been on this side of things for... well, years. He tries to recall the appropriate way to reject someone, and comes up blank. Actually, come to think of it, Tom isn’t sure he ever learned the appropriate way to reject someone.

“What’s your name?” The guy asks, undeterred by Tom’s silence. “I’m David.”

Tom glances at the bartender, who’s only a few feet away, but busy serving what sounds like a trio of boisterously drunk Australians. There’ll be no salvation from that quarter, not yet. He looks back at David, pastes a polite smile on his face, and says, “Look, I don’t know how to say this without sounding awkward, so I’m just gonna… you know. Be awkward.” He clears his throat. “I actually came here with my boyfriend, so… you know.” Tom gestures vaguely, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

David purses his lips. “C’mon, you don’t have to be like that,” he says, cajoling. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Okay,” Tom says, polite smile still firmly in place. “Well, I’m just gonna—” he points at the bartender, who is - thank God - approaching them quickly.

“What’re you having?” David asks, reaching for his wallet.

Tom gives him a look of disbelief. “I— no, that’s okay, I’ve got it, thanks.” He leans toward the bartender, doing his damn best to convey ‘ _this guy is_ not _with me’_ through eye contact alone. “Can I get one Bud Lite—” for Tommy, “—and one JD?”

Normally Tom would start with something lighter, so that he’s not completely shit-faced by the end of the night while Tommy is still mostly sober, but David’s persistence is putting him off.

“I’ll get that,” David says, leaning in past Tom, holding out a twenty as the bartender returns with Tom’s order.

Tom sighs, exasperated, and pushes David’s arm aside as civilly as he can. “Look, I appreciate it, but I’ve got it.” He pays without glancing at how much cash he’s handing over, and grabs the drinks.

“Come on,” David says, “you _really_ don’t have to be like that.” He leans in, smiling, taking advantage of Tom’s occupied hands, and wraps an arm around Tom’s waist—

And it’s right about then that everything goes to shit.

Suddenly, Tommy is _there_ , big and looming, yanking David away by the scruff. Tom barely manages to save their drinks as Tommy shoves David against the bar, crowding in close.

“He told you no,” Tommy says quietly. “A couple of times.”

David stammers something - possibly an apology, possibly a denial - but Tommy cuts that off by hauling David up and slamming him back down. It’s not done at Tommy’s full strength - David’s not unconscious, for one thing - but Tom’s mouth drops open anyway. He glances over at the bartender, who’s backed away, wary. Christ, they’re going to get thrown out if Tommy keeps this up, and what the _fuck_ does Tommy think he’s doing anyway?

“You’re gonna get the fuck out of here, yeah?” Tommy says, and David nods vigorously, even though it clearly wasn’t a question. He bolts when Tommy lets go, running like death is on his heels. Tom stares as he disappears out the door, then whirls back around.

The bartender is still staring at them. So is the rest of the bar - two dozen or so witnesses to the spectacle of Tommy sailing in to save his apparently pathetic, helpless boyfriend; the humiliation burns in Tom’s gut.

“Here,” Tom snaps. He shoves Tommy’s beer at him, then stalks off for the furthest corner of the bar, throwing himself down into the first vacant, overly-stuffed armchair.

Tommy follows him slowly. “What?” he says when he reaches Tom. “I didn’t hurt him. He’ll be fine. And he was bothering you.”

Tom scowls at him. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?” Tommy asks. He sits down on the armrest of Tom’s chair and takes a pull from his beer, completely casual, like he hadn’t done anything fucking wrong.

“The issue is—” Tom throws a hand up, frustrated. “It’s just— what the hell was that?” He points back at the bar. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” The tight ball of embarrassment and humiliation in his gut blooms into full-blown anger, and Tom sits up, biting out, “You’re treating me like I’m your girlfriend. Like I’m a girl. Well, I’m fucking not.”

Tommy pulls back, blinking. “I sucked your cock this morning, man,” he says slowly, with a frown. “I know you’re not a girl.”

“Do you? Really?” Tom thumps his drink down on the table, then starts ticking points off on his fingers. “One: you always insist on paying when we go out. I’m the one who has a regular nine-to-five job, but you don’t let me pay. _Ever._ ”

“I pay for shit because I make more money than you do—”

“ _Two_ ” Tom continues, over the top of Tommy, “God, do you remember when we first started sleeping together? You said you _liked_ the fact that I wasn’t like those ‘big, strong guys’ you’d fucked before. I mean, how the fuck is that a compliment?”

Tommy scrubs his free hand through his hair. “I already told you I fucked up when I said that,” he says, with petulant defensiveness. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“Fine. But what about that stunt you just pulled?” Tom demands.

“ _Stunt?_ ”

“Threatening a guy because he hit on me? What sort of shit is that? I’ve gone twenty-seven years without needing that. I can take care of myself. I’m not your property. Where do you even get off—”

“That guy was bothering you,” Tommy cuts in. “He put his hands on you. You didn't like it, so I stepped in. That doesn’t make me possessive, that makes me your goddamn boyfriend.”

Tom opens his mouth to snap back, until an old memory rises up, unbidden.

_Next time you feel like defending me?_ Summer’s tired, frustrated voice says. _Don’t._

Tom shuts his mouth with a click. With the wind knocked out of his sails, it takes him half a minute before he manages to say: “I didn’t need you to step in.” He rubs at his temple, at the low-grade ache that’s started up. “I’m an adult. I can take care of that sort of thing myself.”

Tommy scowls, but says nothing. He just gives Tom a curt nod and starts draining his beer in long pulls. Tom keeps rubbing at his temple, trying to ignore the casual eavesdroppers nearby. Christ, he and Tommy should’ve gone outside.

The silence between them balloons, pushing into gut-aching awkwardness. In the past, this had usually been the point where Tom would storm away, distancing himself from the almost palpable cloud of anger and discomfort. This time, he doesn’t move. He looks up at Tommy instead, and says, “Why’d you do it? Your temper’s not that bad. Why now? You dislike other people touching your boyfriends that much?”

Tommy drains the last of his beer. “Doesn’t matter,” he says tightly, not looking at Tom. “Won’t be doing it again.” There’s a beat, then: “You can take care of yourself. I get it. You can pay for yourself, too. Any other shit I do that bothers you?”

And if Tom’s anger had been receding, tempered by the long, awkward silence, Tommy’s tone instantly ratchets it back up.

“Actually, yeah, there is,” Tom snaps. He isn’t quite sure where he’s going with this. All he knows is that he wants to push at Tommy until he gets some sort of apology, some concession that Tommy had been in the wrong. He strikes out blindly, says the first thing that comes to his head: “All this time we’ve been together, I’m always the one getting fucked. Why can’t I fuck you for once?”

His brain starts shrieking almost as soon as the words leave his mouth. _What? What?_ It demands. _What the_ fuck _? Where the hell had that come from?_

Tommy is staring at him, mouth hanging open, and Tom gapes right back, both completely baffled by… well, Tom.

Tom’s just about to say _forget it, this is stupid,_ and try to salvage the night somehow, when Tommy says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The derision practically drips from his words.

Tom’s back snaps straight. He glowers, jaw tightening—

“You want to fuck me?” Tommy demands. “And you think I wouldn’t let you? You’ve never even fucking asked, man, so you don’t get to put that on me.”

And that throws Tom right off.

It’s his turn to gape at Tommy now, because Tommy is right. Tom’s never asked. But Tom hasn’t— he’s never… oh _fuck,_ this is even worse than when they’d been arguing about Tommy treating him like a girl.

Embarrassed and on the defensive now, Tom doesn’t bother to mask his disbelief when he says, “What, you’ve actually done it before?”

Tommy huffs. “I’ve got my hangups, Tom, but fucking isn’t one of them. I do what feels good, and I’ve had some really nice cocks up my ass if that's what you want to know.” He smirks - a mean, narrow-eyed smirk that Tom’s never seen before. “You want me to list them off for you?”

Tom rocks back like he’s been slapped. “You—” You’ve been fucked, is what he can’t bring himself to say. Not that he needs to, because Tommy just said it, and the look on his face says he’s telling the truth.

_Fuck,_ Tom thinks. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He swallows, his stomach roiling, abruptly sick with jealousy. It floods his veins, poisoning his blood, the strength of it making Tom’s head swim a little. He wants to say something mean, something vicious; wants to push Tommy into listing every guy who fucked him, twist things around until Tommy’s looking like the asshole again.

But his mouth isn't quite synced up with his brain, and Tom ends up snarling, “Well that’s just great. So you’ve taken it up the ass before. That’s— that must’ve been really fucking fantastic for you. Congratulations.”

Jesus. What the hell is he even saying? He needs to shut up.

No, actually, what Tom needs to do is get out of here.

Sincerely regretting the fact he hadn’t escaped at the first silence, Tom shoves himself out of his seat, jostling Tommy as he goes because Tommy’s still sitting on the goddamn armrest. It feels like everyone in the bar is staring as he stalks away and practically hurls himself out the doors.

Out on the sidewalk, he hesitates.

Part of him wants nothing more than to go home, but another part of him feels like he’s just conceded the argument by walking out. It’s the part of him that makes him half-turn, back toward the doors, before realising it’ll probably make him look like he’s crawling back for forgiveness, and that is _not_ an option.

_Fuck it,_ Tom thinks.

He turns back around, resolute, and marches home.

 

* * *

 

It’s been four hours.

Tom’s indignant rage had lasted him the length of his lonely walk home, plus another three-and-a-half hours after he’d slammed his apartment door shut. He’s face down on his bed now, picking compulsively at a loose thread in his blanket as he broods.

This isn’t the first time he’s gotten jealous. It isn’t even the first time he’d misread someone he was dating. But he’s been completely wrong so many times tonight that it feels like a whole new thing, the crowning achievement in twenty-seven years of misunderstanding relationships.

_You never even asked,_ Tommy had said. _You don’t get to put that on me._

Of course Tom had never asked. Every time he’d brought it up with whichever guy he’d been with in college, the idea had either been met with disbelief or flat-out ignored.

But this isn’t college. And Tommy isn’t one of those guys.

Tom lets out a tired breath. How had they even ended up arguing about that, anyway? They’d started arguing because Tommy had been out of line - throwing his weight around like societal rules didn’t exist, treating Tom like he wasn’t able to take care of himself.

Then again, had Tommy acted like that because he wanted to, or because he _thought_ Tom wanted him to?

There’s only one way to find out, Tom supposes. Even so, he dithers uselessly for another minute, trying to gather his nerves, before picking up his phone, scrolling down to Tommy's name, and tapping the call button.

Tommy picks up on the fifth ring.

“If you wanna keep fighting,” he says, “can it at least wait until tomorrow?”

He sounds tired, resigned - maybe even a little maudlin - and Tom forces the reflexive twinge of defensiveness aside.

“I don't want to keep fighting,” Tom says quietly. He takes a deep breath. “I actually— I just wanted to say that I shouldn’t have said... everything I said before.”

_Great start,_ Tom thinks. _Very eloquent._

He rubs his face and tries again. “I mean, you’re not a possessive asshole. I know you’re not like that. And I don’t know why I said all that other crap—” except he _does,_ and what kind of genuine apology includes lying? “...I just wanted to apologise,” Tom says finally, descending into a mumble. “For being a dick. I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Tommy says quickly. He clears his throat. “And I didn’t mean to piss you off, or treat you like a chick or anything—”

_And I shouldn’t have said that either,_ Tom starts to say, embarrassed, except Tommy’s next words derail him entirely:

“I just wanted you to... need me, a little.”

Tom blinks. _What?_ “What do you m—”

“And if you want to fuck me,” Tommy continues hurriedly, cutting Tom off, “man... I’d fucking love that. You know, missionary, doggie style— whatever you’re into, I’m up for it. You only gotta ask.”

Tom swallows, his hand tightening reflexively around the phone. Part of him wants to backtrack and demand to know what Tommy meant about wanting Tom to need him. The rest of him - the overwhelming majority of him - is mired in cheek-scalding embarrassment. “I…” he says, floundering.

_I’ve never done that before,_ is what he means to say. It’s what he _should_ say, because honesty is the best policy in relationships, right?

What he actually says, however, is: “...right. Uh. Thanks. Good to know.”

There’s a long, awkward pause.

_Shit,_ Tom thinks. Tommy had probably been expecting more enthusiasm. Maybe Tom’s just failed some sort of test. Maybe—

“Are you up for coming by the gym tomorrow?” Tommy asks suddenly. He sounds uncharacteristically tentative. “We could practice a little?”

Tom sags against the couch, relieved. Tommy wants to get together tomorrow. He hadn’t told Tom to fuck off. That’s good. That’s _great_. But...

“I’m shit at boxing,” Tom says, hand over his eyes.

“...you’ve gotten better,” Tommy hedges.

Tom snorts. “I’ve gone from completely terrible to slightly less terrible. Still terrible, though.” He smiles wryly when Tommy makes a small, reluctant noise of agreement. “I just don’t think boxing is for me.”

“Maybe,” Tommy says, disappointed, which isn’t how Tom wanted this conversation to go at all.

“But you could always teach me something else?” Tom suggests.

“Something else?” Tommy sounds dubious. Maybe even nervous.

“Yeah, you know. Something other than boxing.”

“Oh.” The dubiousness vanishes from Tommy’s voice. “Let me think about it. I’ll come up with something.” There’s a beat, and then Tommy says, tone tentatively teasing: “Try and get to the gym before noon, babyface.”

The lingering heaviness leaves Tom's chest. “It’s the weekend now,” he says, peaceable. “I make no promises.”

“Spoiled,” Tommy says, still teasing. “Lazy.”

Tom shrugs, even though Tommy can't see him. “Yup. Guilty as charged.”

By the time they hang up, ten minutes later, Tom is smiling. He thinks Tommy might be, too. Hopes he is, anyway. They'd just had their first argument as a couple, and had come out the other side relatively unscathed. In an odd sort of way, it feels promising.

 

* * *

 

Tom slips into the gym at just a little past ten.

The main floor is filled with men, all pounding away at their bags or spotting for one another on the weights, but Tommy is nevertheless easy to find, punching steadily at his regular bag by the ring. Tom approaches him silently, but when he’s only a few feet away, Tommy stops, looks over, and instantly breaks into a bright, welcoming smile.

The knot in the pit of Tom’s stomach - the one he hadn’t even realised was there - vanishes.

“You came,” Tommy says, still smiling.

“Well, yeah,” Tom says. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but…” Tommy shakes his head and waves a hand. “Never mind.” He steps away from his bag and looks Tom up and down, taking in his clothes. “Those’ll do,” he says, nodding.

“Do for what?”

“Brazilian jiu-jitsu,” Tommy says, matter-of-fact. He loops an arm over Tom’s shoulders and starts guiding him in the direction of the mat rooms. “It relies more on flexibility and leverage than pure strength. It might be a better fit for you. We'll see.”

Tom thumbs through his recently assembled mental encyclopedia of MMA-related terms. “Isn’t Brazilian jiu-jitsu the one where guys roll around on the floor, grappling each other?” He tilts his head, grinning a little. “Sounds kinda pornographic.”

Tommy snorts. “Sure, if you put it like that.”

He leads Tom to an empty mat room - one of the smaller ones - and closes the door behind them. Tom dithers at the side of the room, watching as Tommy kneels down on the mat, until Tommy looks up at him.

“What’re you doing? You can’t wrestle standing up,” Tommy says. He gives the mat in front of him a firm slap. “Come here.”

“Alright.” Tom goes over to him and kneels down awkwardly. “Now what?”

“Now you warm up,” Tommy says.

He puts Tom through a series of warm-up drills - stretches, lunges, small joint movements - rearranging Tom’s limbs whenever he sees fit. He is, quite possibly, rearranging Tom’s limbs a little more often than necessary, hands lingering for a few seconds before letting go; it reminds Tom of their first few encounters, when everything had still been up in the air, and he grins up at Tommy.

“Is this a lesson or a thinly veiled excuse to feel me up?”

“It’s a lesson,” Tommy says firmly, then follows that up with a slap to Tom’s ass.He smiles when Tom laughs, then assumes a brisk, professional tone. “This lesson’s all about learning how to take a fall and how to escape, okay?” He arranges them both so Tom is lying flat on the floor, Tommy braced above him, legs straddling Tom’s hips. This position’s called a mount—”

“It sure is,” Tom chirps. At Tommy’s look, he makes a show of looking contrite. “I’ll be quiet now.”

“Sure you will,” Tommy says drily. “Anyway— this how you’re gonna escape. You’re going to grab my elbow, pull down, and trap my arm against your chest. Then you’re gonna trap my ankle with your foot, raise your hips - that’s called a bridge - and roll us over. Okay?”

Tom gives him a look of disbelief. “I’m supposed to roll _you_ over?”

“We’re just getting the movements down today. You’re not going to be doing any actual takedowns just yet, so don’t even try. That’s a rookie mistake. Don’t make it. Got it?”

Tom nods. “Got it.”

His first attempt is jerky, and the second isn’t much better. The third attempt isn’t so bad - Tom’s even able to pull Tommy’s arm down and trap his foot simultaneously. By the sixth or seventh attempt, Tom is rolling them over smoothly, each movement flowing easily into the next.

And then, flush with success, Tom hooks his foot around Tommy’s ankle before Tommy gives him the go-ahead, and tries to pull him off-balance.

Tommy barely budges.

As Tom blinks up at him, Tommy sighs. “Tom,” he says, shaking his in mock-disappointment, “what’d I say about not making the rookie mistake?”

This is how, thirty minutes later, Tom finds himself face-down on the mat - red-faced, sweating, and out of breath. His muscles are screaming, and he's certain he has friction burns on both his knees and one elbow. None of that truly bothers him, however, because Tommy is laughing, bright and infectious, his body pressed against Tom’s, pinning him down. It’s hardly the worst way to spend a Saturday morning.

“I forgot,” Tom gasps out, “that the Wiki article said you were a child prodigy in wrestling.”

He feels Tommy’s lips curve into a smile against the back of his neck. “They don’t hand out those titles to just anyone, you know.”

“Guess not,” Tom says. “Why’d you switch from wrestling to MMA, then?”

Tommy shrugs. “Not a lot of multi-million dollar prize fights in wrestling.”

“But you were really, really good,” Tom says. “Undefeated, I think the article said.”

There’s a small silence.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, inflectionless. He rolls off Tom and sits up. Tom sits up as well, blinking. Before he can say anything, Tommy says, “You were probably undefeated in, like, building shit or something when you were in school, huh?”

“Building shit?” Tom repeats, grinning. “I don’t think my school offered that. But I probably would’ve tried to come first if it did. I was kind of... over-competitive back then.” He shuffles closer and flops down, head pillowed on Tommy’s lap.

“The fuck do you mean ‘back then’?” Tommy snorts. “You’re over-competitive _now_.”

“I’m really not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well... I’m not as competitive as I used to be,” Tom concedes. “Besides, like you’re one to talk.” He reaches up and squeezes Tommy’s shoulder. “You’re the guy who refused to tap out, even with a busted shoulder.”

Tommy hums, pleased. “Do that again?”

“What, this?” Tom squeezes Tommy’s shoulder and laughs when he gets another pleased noise in response. He sits up, shifts around until he’s kneeling behind Tommy, and starts kneading his shoulders properly.

Tommy groans, his head dropping forward. “Don’t stop on my account, babyface.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Tom replies. It’s hardly a chore to put his hands on Tommy’s body and knead at the broad expanse of his back. He keeps the massage up for so long that Tommy eventually ends up sprawled on his belly, groaning happily whenever Tom manages to find some tense knot of muscle.

The whole thing is, Tom thinks, more than a little pornographic.

Apparently Tommy is thinking the same thing, because he turns his head and casts a hooded glance over his shoulder, lips curving into a smile that gets Tom’s pulse hammering harder.

Tommy makes to roll over, so Tom shifts up onto his knees, then sits back down, on Tommy’s thighs. Tommy’s hands come to rest on Tom’s sides, thumbs stroking his hip bones, seemingly of their own accord.

“So,” Tommy murmurs, “you thought about what we talked about last night?”

Tom swallows as Tommy’s fingers inch beneath his shirt. “Uh— we talked about a lot of stuff. What—”

Tommy gives him a patient look.

“...are you asking because of what I said yesterday? In the bar?” Tom asks, trying not to fidget. “Because I was just... you know. Pissed off. Talking without thinking.”

“It has a little to do with that, yeah,” Tommy says, then grins. “But I'm mainly asking because I think it'd be hot.”

“..oh.”

“Unless… you’re not into it?” Tommy says, eyeing him carefully.

“I’m into it," Tom says quickly. “Of course I’m into it.”

He’s a guy, isn't he? He’s a red-blooded, twenty-something guy with a healthy interest in sex. Ergo—

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“But nothing.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, waiting him out.

“Well…” Tom says, when the silence becomes more awkward than anything he could say, “it’s just— I haven't actually... you know.” He glances away. “I haven't ever actually fucked a guy before.”

Tommy’s hands tighten on his hips for a second, then relax. There’s another short, charged silence.

“Yeah?” Tommy says eventually. His voice is rough, half an octave lower than usual. Tom blinks. “Why's that?”

“I don’t know.” Tom shrugs, embarrassment squirming in his gut. “I guess I come across as... not... the kind of guy to do that. Maybe.”

“I’ve never thought that.”

_Then you’d be the first,_ Tom thinks, but doesn’t say. He examines Tommy for a few seconds, absently rubbing a thumb against Tommy’s mouth. It’s a gorgeous mouth. Pretty, even. Pretty like—

“You ever get called a girl when you were younger?” Tom asks abruptly.

Tommy raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask where _that_ comment had come from. He simply nips lightly at Tom’s thumb and says, “Yeah, I guess? Got called that a couple times in Basic, until I started bulking up.”

“So you’ve never really…” Tom trails off, cheeks growing hot. There’s no way to ask what he wants to ask without sounding like an immature idiot.

“Never what?”

Tom sighs. “So you’ve never... doubted your masculinity, then?”

“Not really.” Tommy looks at Tom, thoughtful. “Why? You got doubts about yours?”

“No,” Tom says immediately, then pauses. “Well... maybe. Sort of.” He plucks at Tommy’s sleeve. “I mean, it’s kind of hard not to, sometimes, standing next to you.” He sighs again. “It’s weird, you know? I never thought about this when I was dating women. But now…” He shrugs. “Here I am.”

Tommy gives him a small frown. “Taking it up the ass doesn’t mean anything other than you like taking it up the ass,” he says finally.

Tom snorts, then laughs a little. “I know that.” He taps the side of his head. “I know that up here, anyway. It’s just— I don’t think I’m that feminine,” he says slowly. “But I don’t really feel all that masculine either, so…”

“Why do you have to be one or the other?” Tommy says, tone reasonable. He folds his arms behind his head and gives Tom a fond smile. “Why can’t you just be Tom? I like you the way you are.”

“I don’t think it’s always that easy.”

“I think you’re overthinking it a little,” Tommy says gently.

“Maybe,” Tom says, glum. He starts picking at Tommy’s sleeve again. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that.”

Tommy reaches out and cups the back of Tom’s head, still smiling. “Well, for what it’s worth," he says, “if you _do_ want to switch things up... I think you’d be a natural.”

Tom smiles wanly. “Thanks.” The knot in the pit of his stomach and the nerves have returned full-force, but he doesn’t resist when Tommy tugs him down for a kiss.

They don’t break apart until Frank starts pounding on the door, hollering for Tommy to get his ass back in the ring.

 

* * *

 

Tom can’t sleep.

Well, alright, that’s an exaggeration. And, as Rachel has been telling him lately, he really needs to control his tendency to exaggerate. So—

Tom _can_ sleep.

It’s just that he falls asleep most nights mulling over Tommy’s words from the other day - an endless, maddening loop of _if you want to fuck me... man, I’d fucking love that_ that gets Tom’s dick twitching in excited response and leaves the rest of him feeling decidedly... confused.

No, actually, that’s not right either. He isn’t confused.

He’s… conflicted. Conflicted and awkward, gripped by a gut-twisting anxiety that makes _no_ sense whatsoever, because it’s not like Tom is a virgin. It’s not like Tommy is the first guy he’s ever been with. And it's not like Tom doesn’t enjoy fucking, because dwelling on memories of his ex-girlfriends (never mind the inevitably disastrous conclusions to their relationships) - of slipping into tight, wet heat - is enough to get him completely hard.

Except...

Except he wouldn’t be slipping into a girl this time, will he? He’d be slipping into Tommy. Tommy, who’s practically twice as broad as Tom is across the shoulders; who can sling Tom over said shoulders effortlessly, who can keep Tom firmly pinned as he fucks him into the mattress. Tommy who’s been fucked before - who’s had plenty of nice cocks up his ass before, as Tommy had so charmingly put it - by guys as big as he is, and just how is Tom supposed to measure up to that?

Tom rolls onto his stomach. He pulls a pillow over his head, like that will somehow stop his brain from firing away, stop it from conjuring mental images of Tommy being fucked by uniformly good-looking men (some in uniform) with porn star cocks in a variety of (frankly improbable) positions, and—

_You're being ridiculous,_ Tom tells himself. _Stop it._

He rolls back onto his side. Hits himself in the head with the pillow for good measure, but the awkwardness and the weird, amorphous jealousy doesn’t abate, not one bit, and oh God, it’s like Tom’s been transported back to his teenage years.

Back to the times of uncertain, unrealistic expectations and inexperienced fumbling; back to the times of I-really-fucking-like-you-and-I-don’t-want-to-embarrass-myself-in-front-of-you, and goddamn it, he’s _twenty-seven years old_. Shouldn’t he be over this sort of shit by now?

Tom sighs, long and loud, then tosses his pillow aside and sits up. He needs to talk to someone. Except talking to someone about this is out of the question. Even if it weren't past midnight, who could he possibly talk to? Not Tommy, for obvious reasons. Not I’m-practically-a-zero-on-the-Kinsey-scale Paul. _Definitely_ not Mac. And, no matter how desperate he is, Tom is not going to talk to his little sister about anal sex. He’s not going to talk to his little sister about sex _at all_ , actually.

But if all his regular sounding boards are out, then all Tom has left is... the internet.

Feeling supremely foolish (and trying hard to avoid thinking about the last time he’d googled something in relation to Tommy), Tom fumbles for his laptop. It feels like the entire world is watching him, _Truman Show_ -style, and Tom finds himself hunched over the screen, shielding it from hypothetical prying eyes, as he slowly types out ‘topping for the first time’, hoping Google will auto-complete the phrase for him.

It takes him a good ten seconds before he can bring himself to hit enter.

The results reveal that Tom is not, in fact, the first person to research this. He’s not even the hundredth person to research this. He is, however, possibly the oldest person to research this, judging by the general level of grammar, occasional avatars, and username choices.

(Then again, Mac’s username is mac_attack696969, so perhaps Tom shouldn’t be so quick to presume age based on username.)

Suppressing a sigh, he clicks on the first non-porn related link, and starts reading.

 

* * *

 

More than twelve hours and two cups of coffee later, Tom has made up his mind.

Sort of. Maybe.

...alright, he’s _mostly_ made up his mind, and it’s enough for him to message Tommy with: _are you still coming over tonight?_

His phone pings five minutes later, bringing Tommy’s reply of: _maybe 6? shoot taking forever_.

Tom raises his eyebrows. Another photo shoot? Jesus.

There’s less than two weeks until Tommy’s fight. Tom had expected Tommy to be knuckling down, training 24/7. Instead, the lead up to Tommy’s fight is more like some strange mix of training and media promotion, photoshoots and interviews eating up what little free time Tommy usually has left.

(Tom had sat down the other day, with Mac, to watch Tommy being interviewed on ESPN. It turned out he needn’t have bothered, because Frank had done the majority of the talking, while Tommy stared out into the middle distance, only rousing from his zombie state when a reporter asked him a question directly.)

Tom taps his phone against his palm and looks around his room, thinking. Six o’clock. That gives him just a little more than half an hour.

He sets about cleaning - picking up stray pieces of clothing and straightening the bedspread, before deciding to change the sheets completely. He opts against opening the windows, though, because the LA skyline is looking distinctly grey today, and opening the windows will probably hinder more than help.

At quarter-to-six, Tom sticks his iPod in the stereo dock and arranges some candles he’d found stashed in a cupboard into small, artful clusters around the room. He fishes his Zippo out of the top drawer, clicks it open… then stops.

_Is it too much?_ Tom wonders, looking the room over with a critical eye.

It’s not like he and Tommy have ever put any special effort into sex before. They fuck with the lights on, trade handjobs and blowjobs when anal seems like too much effort. More than a handful of times, they’ve fucked with just the necessary bits of clothing yanked aside.

Maybe Tommy - easygoing and practical - would find Tom going to all this effort laughable. And, right now, more than ever, the last thing Tom wants to be in Tommy’s eyes is laughable.

Then again, Tom thinks, just because Tommy seems stereotypically masculine, it doesn’t mean he’s incapable of appreciating a little bit of romance, right?

Right.

Tom nods to himself. Reassured once more, he lights the candles, then crosses back to his iPod and presses play.

Ten minutes later, he turns the music off and blows the candles out.

_Too much,_ he thinks. Candles _and_ music— that’s definitely too much. One or the other, though… that might be okay. Maybe.

...possibly.

“Fuck,” Tom says, and starts grabbing the candles, stowing them back in the drawer. He’s in the middle of contemplating whether it’d be crass to just put the lube and condoms on the bedside table for easy access when there’s a knock at the door. Tom dumps the lube and condoms, lets them land where they may, practically tripping over his feet in his haste to answer.

Tommy is leaning against the doorjamb when he opens the door, dressed in his regular workout attire, hair damp from the shower.

Tom blinks. “I thought you had a photoshoot?”

“I did,” Tommy says, straightening up. “Had a photographer following me around all afternoon, taking action shots while I was training. They’re going up on the UFC website or something tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tom steps back to let Tommy in, making a mental note to check out the website sometime soon.

Tommy grins the instant the door closes behind them and hooks his fingers into Tom’s belt loops, drawing him in for a kiss. He licks into Tom’s mouth, slips a hand up underneath Tom’s shirt, his other hand sliding downward, and starts backing Tom up, toward the bedroom.

And _oh—_ okay. Tom knows what’s going on. This has happened a few times before, when Tommy was late from training. Endorphins, Tom figures. But whatever the reason is, it means Tommy is down for sex the minute he walks through the door. Tom isn’t exactly going to complain - far from it, really - but there _is_ the matter of him talking to Tommy about... well—

“I wanted to ask you— something,” Tom says. It comes out muffled because Tommy just won’t stop kissing him, his hands seemingly everywhere - at the small of Tom’s back, then groping his ass, then stroking over Tom’s burgeoning erection.

“Mm?” Tommy says, distracted. “Okay.”

They bump up against the bed. Tommy wraps an arm around Tom’s waist, shifts his weight, and tips them both back onto the bed. Tom winds up on top, pressed chest to hip against Tommy, their legs tangled together.

Tommy grins at him, then at the bottle of lube and the condoms scattered across the bedside table. “All prepared, babyface?”

“Sort of,” Tom says, cheeks redder than they really ought to be. He grabs the bottle before Tommy can and fidgets with the bottle cap, flipping it open and shut. “So, I was wondering— I mean, if you want—” he clears his throat. “...do you still feel like switching things up?”

Tommy blinks, then grins. He cups Tom by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a kiss, filthy and open-mouthed.

“So that’s— uh. I guess that's a ‘yes’?” Tom says, when they finally break apart, smiling despite his nerves.

“More like a ‘fuck yes’.” Tommy gives Tom another kiss, lightning-quick, and a longer grope. “But like I said, only if you want to.”

“I do want to,” Tom says, nodding vigorously. “Hence, you know, the asking. It’s just—” he cuts himself off before he says _‘don't expect too much’_ , because there’s being nervous and then there’s being pathetic, and Tom’s not crossing that line if he can help it.

He kisses Tommy instead, because kissing is familiar. Tom knows kissing. He can do kissing, losing himself in the slide of Tommy's mouth against his, the teasing brushes of his tongue and the press of their bodies, groping and stripping one another’s clothes off until they’re both down to their boxers and grinding like teenagers.

“How do you wanna do this?” Tommy asks, half-muffled against Tom's mouth.

Tom blinks. “Huh?”

Tommy pulls back, although he doesn't stop palming Tom's cock or groping his ass. “How do you want to do this?” he repeats, more clearly. When all Tom does is keep blinking at him, he adds: “You want me on my back? On my side? Or hands and knees?”

“Um,” Tom says. His mouth goes dry as his mind floods with possibilities, almost too fast for him to comprehend.

He wants _everything_ , right now, all at once. He wants it hard and fast, slow and careful, and everything in between. He wants so badly it’s dizzying.

Tom takes a steadying breath and sits back, wriggling until Tommy lets him go. He turns to the bedside table and grabs a condom from the half dozen or so packets scattered across its surface. When he turns back, Tommy is completely naked, leaning back against the pillows, legs spread and cock in hand. His eyes are dark, fixed on Tom, as he jerks his cock in a slow, lazy rhythm.

The condom slips from Tom’s suddenly nerveless fingers and bounces to a stop near Tommy’s knee.

“Shouldn’t I be doing that?” Tom manages, after a few moments.

“If you want,” Tommy says. He grins. “Or you can do other shit. C’mere.”

Tom doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles over to Tommy, eager despite the nerves that still - _still_ \- haven't gone away, and settles himself between Tommy’s spread legs.

Tommy stays still, limbs loose and relaxed as Tom grabs the lube and focuses on slicking his fingers up, but Tom isn’t fooled; he can feel Tommy's attention on him, focused and heavy, an almost physical weight. It’s… kind of disconcerting, honestly, although Tom doubts Tommy intends for it to be.

“Do you… uh. Do you mind turning over?” Tom blurts. “Getting onto your hands and knees?”

Tommy leans up and kisses him. “Whatever you want, babyface,” he says, as he turns over obligingly.

Some people, in Tom’s estimation, are only appealing from the front, while others are only appealing from the back. Tommy is, of course, one of those blatantly unfair people who looks good from all angles, but there’s something especially lovely about seeing him from behind - the swell of his shoulders and the thick muscles of his back, all leading down to the gorgeous, taut curve of his ass.

Tom mouths his way down Tommy’s back, down to the dip of his spine - it’s a spot that Tom vaguely recalls Tommy saying is a horrible place to take a punch, full of nerve endings as it is. It’s apparently not that bad a place to be licked and kissed, though, and the wordless, approving sounds that Tommy makes are enough to stop Tom from moving on. He mouths and nips at the small of Tommy’s back for a while, teeth scraping over skin, mindful not to leave any lasting marks - it probably wouldn’t look good for the cameras - before leaning back.

Tom traces his fingers over Tommy’s hip, his ass, leaving faint, sticky trails of lube, until his fingers brush against Tommy’s entrance. Tom rubs the furled flesh gently, cautious and testing, occasionally pressing a little harder, dipping the tip of his finger in. He catalogues each minute twitch of Tommy’s hips, every unsteady breath, fascinated. Keeps it up for so long that Tommy starts rolling and wriggling his shoulders, impatient.

“ _Tom,_ ” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

Startled out of his semi-daze, Tom slides his finger in, right up to the knuckle, unceremonious.

_Sorry,_ he starts to say, but Tommy only sighs in relief, head dropping down. He rocks forward a little, then back against Tom. Tom slides his finger out slowly, then back in, fascinated by the way Tommy tightens around him, velvety smooth and blood-hot, and Tom’s cock jerks at the thought of fucking into that tight heat.

“You can go faster than that,” Tommy says, breath catching. “You can add another, I can take it.”

Tom nods jerkily. He applies more lube before adding another finger, slower than he had the first time, despite Tommy’s urging. This time, he remembers to curl his fingers, searching, until Tommy makes a choked sort of sound and spreads his legs wider. A bolt of want shoots through Tom at the sight, his nerves lighting up with heat.

Things becomes a little easier then, Tom losing himself in the push-pull of foreplay. He reaches around, gets a hand under Tommy and wraps his fingers around Tommy’s cock, slicking the precome down along the shaft. Jerks Tommy off slowly, in time with the thrusting of his fingers.

“Okay, okay—” Tommy swallows. “Tom, c’mon, that’s enough.”

Tom slows down, somewhat reluctantly. Part of him had wanted to see if he could make Tommy come from his fingers alone. He gives Tommy one last lingering stroke, just to see what Tommy will do (tilt his hips back, swearing under his breath, it turns out), and makes a mental note to revisit the hands-only experiment another time. Then he kicks off his boxers, movements less than graceful, and fumbles for the condom and lube.

He tears the foil packet open, rolls the condom on, and rises up higher onto his knees. Shuffles into position behind Tommy— and hesitates.

This - their positions, with Tommy turned away from him, head bowed - feels weirdly detached. Impersonal. Which is ridiculous, of course. They’re both buck naked, and it’s not like this is some random one night stand they’ve got going on here, it’s just—

Tom touches Tommy’s hip. “Sorry. Just— could you turn over again?” He flushes a little. “Sorry.”

Tommy makes a breathless, amused sound, but flips over without protest, settling his legs on either side of Tom’s.

“Better?” Tommy asks, smiling.

And yeah, it is better, because Tom can see his face, but— oh God, Tom may have made a tactical error here.

Tom ducks his head, because the other option is looking Tommy in the eyes, having Tommy read everything on his face, and Tom isn’t sure he can handle that, not right now. So he keeps his eyes trained downward, on Tommy’s hole - shiny with lube and slightly reddened from the stretch - as he takes himself in hand again.

The first push in is all thought and anxiety colliding head-on with raw sensation. Tom has to stop, less than halfway in, as he tries to corral both his still-jangling nerves and the base, selfish desire to _thrust_ and rut mindlessly into the tight-hot clutch enveloping the head of his cock.

He doesn't get to stay still for long though, because Tommy shifts beneath him. He hooks his legs more securely over Tom’s hips and brings his hands up to Tom’s ass, almost - but not quite - pulling Tom in, encouraging him to start moving again.

Tom works his hips in quick, small movements. Fucks in deeper with each little thrust, barely remembering to breathe, until he finally bottoms out, balls brushing Tommy’s ass. He tucks his face against the side of Tommy’s neck and exhales, shaky, hearing Tommy do the same.

“Does it— is this okay?” Tom mumbles against Tommy’s neck. “Are you okay?”

Tommy laughs quietly. “Tom,” he says, mock-solemn, “if I can take a punch to the face, I can take a dick up my ass, alright?”

It's blunt, unexpected, startling a laugh out of Tom and loosening the knot of tension in his gut. It apparently loosens his tongue, too, because Tom finds himself saying, completely without thinking: “What should I do now?”

To his amazement, Tommy doesn't laugh him to scorn. “It's not like there’s a script you have to follow or something,” he says. “Quit overthinking everything and just— fuck me.”

“Right,” Tom says, feeling like all his higher cognitive functions have switched off. “Of course.”

He pulls out slowly. Pushes back in, still achingly slow, and the tight, slick drag around his cock is amazing, so good that Tom has to grit his teeth, clamping down on the embarrassing whimper that threatens to escape. God, he’d almost forgotten how good this could feel. His body is clamouring for him to go harder, faster, but Tom reins himself in and keeps his thrusts slow and steady. He isn't sure how long he'll last, but he wants to draw it out for as long as he’s able.

Drawing it out is easier said than done, however, because Tommy is beautifully, wonderfully responsive. He rolls his hips up to meet Tom’s with every thrust, twisting and shifting until Tom is stroking in at exactly the right angle, judging from Tommy’s sudden strangled groan.

Tom leans back, onto his heels, careful to maintain the same angle, and thrusts back in. Not as hard as his body is screaming for, but still hard enough that Tommy arches and moans, legs falling away from Tom’s waist. The change in position means losing some of that stomach-curling depth, but that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine, because Tom can kiss Tommy properly now, can let the aching noises out as he licks into the plush wetness of Tommy’s mouth.

The air is humid and hot between them. For all his attempts to be prepared, Tom hadn’t thought to turn the air conditioning on before Tommy arrived, and they’re both sticky with sweat and pre-come. That doesn’t stop Tom from easing himself down, shifting his weight onto one forearm so he can get a hand around Tommy’s cock and jerk him off in quick, short strokes.

“Fuck, _fuck—_ ” Tommy pants. “You can go harder,” he adds after a moment, and Tom has to bite down on his own lip savagely as his body reacts. He snaps his hips, driving into Tommy, hard and deep, then does it again, over and over.

Slow and steady is the furthest thing from Tom's mind now. He’s hurtling toward the edge, too fast and too soon, but he can’t bring himself to slow down, mesmerised as he is by the flex of Tommy’s body and the low, encouraging sounds Tommy keeps making, the way he grabs at Tom like he can’t get enough. It’s too fucking much, and Tom can’t—

“I’m gonna come,” Tom gasps out. “Sorry, sorry—”

Tommy cuts him off with a kiss, wet and messy. He clamps his hand around the back of Tom’s neck, holds him in place. “Good. Do it, I want you to,” he says against Tom’s mouth, his voice throaty, wanting, and that does it.

“God—” Tom gasps, voice thin and stretched, and then he’s gone, losing all semblance of rhythm as he comes, thrusting once, twice, three times, and then a weak fourth thrust that’s barely more than a twitch of his hips. Tom’s arms buckle a little then, sending him crashing down, but Tommy takes his weight easily, with little more than a mild grunt.

Several long seconds pass before Tom comes back to himself, but when he does, he can feel Tommy’s cock pressed against his hip - still hard, still smearing pre-come between their bodies.

“Damn,” Tom mumbles. He came first, like an overeager teenager. He can’t believe he—

“Hey.” Tommy brings a hand up and cards his fingers through Tom’s hair. “What’d I say about not overthinking everything?” He sounds anything but disappointed, and he keeps carding his fingers through Tom’s hair, until Tom regains enough motor control to lever himself up - limbs feeling unbelievably noodly - and pull out, gripping the base of the condom. Tom ties the condom off carefully, tosses it in the direction of the trash can— and misses.

Tommy snorts.

Tom points at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not a word.” He starts to slide off the bed, intending to toss the condom away properly, but—

“Nuh-uh,” Tommy says. He catches Tom around the waist. “You forgetting something, babyface?”

Tom gives him a mock-innocent stare. “No?” he says, before grinning and pushing Tommy back against the bed.

He slides down the length of Tommy’s body, takes Tommy’s cock into his mouth. A small part of him feels bad for coming first, wants to make up for it. Tom supposes Tommy wasn’t that far off the mark when he called him over-competitive, but at least the only thing he’s competing with now are his own expectations.

Tom fumbles for the lube. He gets the cap open without taking his mouth off Tommy, coats his fingers clumsily, and then he’s pressing two fingers back into the slick clench of Tommy’s ass.

Tommy arches upward, swearing, as Tom curls his fingers and tightens his mouth around Tommy’s cock. He works Tommy relentlessly, without teasing or easing up, and it doesn't take long before Tommy’s thighs are trembling, and there’s the now-familiar steady drip of precome against Tom’s tongue.

“I’m gonna—” Tommy grits out. His hips jerk, involuntary, the way they always do when Tommy’s close to orgasm.

Tom hums in approval. He only gets to work his fingers in and out a few more times before Tommy’s entire body tenses, his cock hardening further against Tom’s tongue, and then Tommy is coming, hands fisted in the sheets, clenching down on Tom’s fingers.

Tom swallows him down, then pulls off with a wet pop, grinning.

“Better?” he asks. He curls his fingers, just to feel Tommy’s body jerk and hear his breathing hitch, then withdraws them slowly. He presses a gentle kiss against the inside of Tommy’s thigh, then crawls back up to Tommy, beaming.

“You’re kinda smug after topping,” Tommy says, his voice thick and lazy, entirely devoid of reproach. He brushes his thumb against one of Tom's dimples. “‘s a good look on you.”

Tom grins wider. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” Tommy says. He tugs Tom closer to him.

Tom glances at the spent condom lying on the floor, frowning in dismay. Tommy’s arm tightens around his waist.

“Leave it,” Tommy says.

“That’s gross.”

“I’m a gross person,” Tommy replies. “Leave it for a second, I wanna ask you something.”

Tom looks up at him. “Okay?”

Tommy winds his fingers through Tom’s hair. “Do you want to come see me fight?” he asks, after a second. “I can get you a ticket.”

Tom lifts his head, surprised. “Really? But I thought—” He cuts himself off.

They haven’t discussed the possibility of Tommy coming out, not since that talk outside the Regal, but Tom had assumed attending the fight would be off-limits. Yet another assumption that’s dead wrong, apparently. After all, it’s not like getting Tom a seat at his fight is going to out Tommy; there won’t be some blinking neon sign hovering over Tom’s head, declaring him as Tommy’s boyfriend, or anything.

_It's just a seat,_ Tom tells himself. _Calm down._

“I can get tickets for Mac and Paul, too, if you want company,” Tommy continues, when Tom stays silent. “They won’t be ringside seats or anything, but I can get you an all-access pass, so you can go in the locker room after. Or... well, you don’t have to come if you’re not into—”

“No, no,” Tom says quickly, waving a hand. “I’m into it. I want to go. I want to see you fight.”

Tommy smiles - one of those bright, unfettered smiles that Tom is beginning to adore. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, smiling back. “I’ve never been to a fight before, so it’ll be cool. A new experience. And—” He stops as a thought occurs to him. “Uh.”

“What is it?”

Tom props himself up on one elbow. “Well, I was just thinking— like, speaking of matches…” he hesitates, then plows on. “My little sister, Rachel... she has this thing. A weekend soccer match in a few weeks? Semi-finals, so it’s kind of a big deal, and my mom and Martin will be in Canada then, so I’ll be the only one there, and…” he trails off, because Tommy is giving him that look again, the one that says Tom has lost him, but he’s waiting to see where Tom ends up. Tom clears his throat. “I mean, it’s not a huge fight at the Staples Center, but—” Tom shrugs and looks down, eyes on Tommy’s tattoos. “I don’t know, I guess I was just wondering if you’d like to meet her? Maybe?”

“Meet your sister?” Tommy says, eyebrows raised. There’s a small pause, during which Tom’s stomach shrivels down to the size of a pea, and then: “I… yeah. Sure.” Tommy gives him a quick squeeze. “I’m game.”

“Really?” Tom searches Tommy’s face for any sign of reluctance or unwillingness, and when he finds none, the relief and elation hits him like a tidal wave. “That’s— okay, that’s _great._ ” Tom beams. “Seriously, you’ll love her, she’s awesome, even when she’s giving me shit. Actually, you’ll probably enjoy that. And I can promise you front row seats, unless Shelly Goldstein brings her entire extended family again, and—”

“Okay,” Tommy says, cutting Tom’s rambling short with a kiss. “Sounds good.”

They lie there for a while, Tom drifting off as he listens to Tommy’s slow, even breaths, and it’s then, in the strange limbo between wakefulness and sleep, that Tom finds himself saying: “Sorry.”

“For what?” Tommy asks, drowsy and puzzled.

Tom coughs in his fist, a little more awake. “For... you know. Coming first.”

Tommy groans and puts a hand over his eyes. “Tom...”

“ _But,_ ” Tom adds quickly, “I’ll do better next time.”

Tommy pulls his hand away from his face. “Next time, huh?” He peers at Tom, amused but pleased. “And when’s that gonna be?”

“Well…” Tom looks up at the ceiling, feigning deep thought. “The next time you’re over, maybe? Or tomorrow morning, if you stay the night. Or...” he grins, “maybe in a few hours?”

Tommy laughs. “Looking forward to it, whenever it is,” he says. He kisses Tom’s temple, then settles back against the pillows and pulls him in close, his arm heavy and warm.

Tom tucks his face against the side of Tommy’s neck, smiling. He’s looking forward to a lot of things, whenever they may happen.


End file.
